Sunflowers
by ABright17
Summary: Albus meets Scorpius on a train and nothings ever the same after that.
1. Chapter 1

**_ (September 1_****_st_****_)_**

'What?'

'Don't you ever – 'Harry Potter shakes his head. Sighs. 'Your Uncle's birthday is a few weeks from now, there's a party.'

His eyes focus on his feet, which shuffle left to right, but he isn't nervous, not _nervous_, just uncomfortable, he doesn't look up but he says, 'Is there?'

His father nods his head, turning his own face to the side, closing his eyes. 'The nineteenth. Lily, Rose, Hugo are attending – from Hogwarts – a port key has been arranged.'

Albus nods his head, pretending to think about it, 'I see.'

Harry glances up. 'You are welcome, Albus.'

'I know that.'

'Yes, I _know_ – you do – and yet – '

'I couldn't – '

'You could.' James Potter appears. Standing beside the father he looks nothing like. The only trait he inherited was the height, but his hair and eyes are all Ginny's. Harry and Albus look at him but James' cold eyes are focused on his brother. 'You could and you fucking know it. It's only a – '

'Sorry.' Albus interjects quickly, turning away from them, focusing on the train, 'Tell Uncle Ron that for me, tell him I'm sorry, and Happy Birthday.'

He nods at them. At their scowling faces. Before retreating to the train. His trunk pulled clumsily behind him.

There are no unoccupied compartments. So, after walking too many times down the same corridor Albus decides on the one furthest to the back. There's one person there, and they are sleeping, head lolled forward, back slumped. Albus stalks into the cabin quietly, keeping his trunk on the floor. He puts his feet on it and takes out a book. He sits across from the stranger.

It is only a moment later that noise interrupts his reading and he looks at the door. His cousin Rose stands at the window.

'What?' He says, opening the door halfway.

The half of her face he sees is turned down, she rolls her eyes up to him, dejectedly. 'Why are you whispering?'

He looks back at the sleeper, shrugs, 'He's asleep, what is it?'

Rose sighs heavy, like it's a task to be here, and to talk, 'Mum told me to sit with you.'

'Again?'

'Mmm, yeah, I know, she asked Hugo too but you know him,' her hands gesticulate between them, 'I can just tell her – '

He's nodding before she finishes speaking, 'Okay, Okay, yeah. I'll see you.'

He shuts the door –

-too forcefully, the old hinges click clack against the frame and the sleeper awakens dramatically. His legs and arms move in spasms, eyes startled, his hands grip his chest.

'Shit!' Eyes like plates, he swishes his head stupidly from left to right. Up and down. 'Shit!'

'Sorry. Door.' Albus murmurs ridiculously. He points to it, like the man has no clue there is in fact a door there. He shakes his head at himself and quickly sits down and bends his head into his book.

'Fucking hell, are we almost there?' The strangers voice is soft, delicate, the curses sound strange on such a voice. He wipes his hand across the condensation on the window, Albus doesn't look, but he hears it squeak.

'No. Just left.' He mumbles.

'No way, I've been asleep for hours.'

'We just left.'

'Well, shit.' He sighs heavily and leans against the seat.

They are silent. Albus is rigid in his seat, he breathes, deep and calming, or trying to be, but it is all for show. He can't settle, not with the stranger across from him looking, watching, watching him for no reason at all, but he isn't one for talking, never mind prying, so he pretends to read. But it does nothing to stop the feeling. The feeling of – other. That there is substance in their shared silence. It can't block out the very real occurrence of his heart racing in his chest, of his sticky hands clinging obscenely to the pages of the book. He doesn't know this person, has barely given him a glance, but the air around him is suffocating – but somehow in the most wonderful of ways. Like there are flowers blooming in his lungs, but whilst they are beautiful, he is choking. What is this?

He finishes a chapter. Skimming each page.

Then another. He is just turning pages.

'How old are you?'

It almost startles him. Even though he somehow expected it. Albus looks up. The other man is stretched out on the seat. Feet up. His head against the window. He's smiling, all glorious white teeth and big red lips smiling. He is so pale, the sun behind him makes him look angelic. But those eyes – so big and light, he's never seen eyes like those before – a pale grey, is everything about him so obviously pale, virtuous, delicate? He looks small, almost ridiculously so – yes, perhaps everything about him is delicate –

He coughs, 'Seventeen.'

_'You are?' _Those eyes widen, a dark ring encircles the grey, merlin – the flowers climb up his throat.

'Yes.'

Now he's staring at him, with those eyes. He's leaning over the seat so obviously. His big red lips pursed in confusion, or interest or something he can't decipher. He sucks in his cheeks, showing his angular cheeks. His pointed nose turns up a little at the end, it's unusual, unique, gorgeous. Everything – he shakes his head -

'You don't look seventeen.' He says finally, his hair spikes against the window, forming a too-blonde halo. He shrugs. 'Are you a student?'

Albus runs his hot hands down his face, 'Obviously.'

His white brows crease, 'Not obviously. I wouldn't know.'

'I am.' Albus feels the need to confirm.

'Okay yeah. Me too. I've just transferred from Durmstrang.' He rolls those intense eyes. 'Fucking place.' He pauses. Scrutinizing. 'You don't look my age. You look older.'

'Okay.' Replies Albus, not knowing what to say.

'What're you reading?' He turns, his legs fall onto the floor and he leans over, trying to read the cover. His hand comes out and a long thin finger strokes over the words on the front. Albus grits his teeth and tries not to jerk himself away. His own hands fist the book with the effort. But eventually Albus folds his page and shuts the book. He turns it and looks down; his finger traces the words himself. Somehow, he can't help himself, to touch where the other man fingers just were. 'Dante.'

'Dante,' The other boy nods and looks up at him. 'The Inferno? That's meant to be fucking dark, isn't it?'

Albus looks at him incredulously. His lips almost turn up into a smile. 'Not really.'

A beat.

'Isn't it about hell?' His eyebrows crease, and he turns his head slightly, like a cat, Albus thinks, like a curious little precious cat.

'A perception of it.' He nods.

His teeth come out and bite at his bottom lip. Albus' eyes strain as not to stare at them, he bites his own cheeks, as the man asks, 'A fictional one?'

'Perhaps.'

He leans back suddenly and his legs stretch out, his black boots tap against Albus' trunk. 'Can I have a look?'

Albus hands it over. He doesn't know why. He wouldn't usually.

The blonde reads the blurb. His pale fingers open the book. He reads, and the tip of his tongue runs along his top lip, slowly, Albus takes a breath, holds it, his eyes close - 'Could I read it? After you.'

He blows the air out of his lungs, 'Maybe.'

'Maybe?' The stranger looks away, a flush running up his neck. 'What does that mean?'

His cheeks are red, his neck, the tip of that nose, all flushed and – 'Okay.'

'Oh, thanks.' He throws the book into Albus' hands. Rubs his eyes, his face. Then says, 'I don't get to read much Muggle literature.'

'Oh.' Albus puts the book into his rucksack.

'Durmstrang didn't approve.' He rolls his eyes again. 'Do you take Muggle Studies?'

'I do.'

The man grins. Then he leans over again. Face full of curiosity. His eyes search Albus. Who wonders what he's trying to find. But realises he doesn't care. There's nothing to find. 'Is it as fascinating as I imagine it?' He beams. 'Do we see muggle inventions? An automobile? A telephone? Have you heard of airplanes? They fly, like us, like us, but transport hundreds of people at one time, you can eat on them, you can watch, oh, what is it? They can watch, the, erm – '

'Television?'

'Exactly! Precisely! How incredible, right? Can you even fucking imagine? Do we get to see those? Fucking wow.' He shakes his head.

'I doubt it.' Albus replies.

'Really? So, it's mainly theory?' He taps his black boots against Albus' trunk in some sort of rhythm. Dum, Dum, Da-dum, dum. Unlike Albus' relentless heart which bangs against his chest, dadumdadumdadumdadum…

'I suppose.'

He bites his tongue between his teeth, smiling, he says, 'Yeah?' Voice passionate, excited, 'What else do you take?'

Albus had never met anyone so talkative. It is the most he's spoken to anyone in – longer than he cares to remember. 'Erm, Potions, Defence, Charms and Transfiguration.'

'Same, well, 'he chuckles, 'not entirely. I don't see myself as much of a defence against the dark arts type, I chose Care of Magical Creatures instead.'

'Animals?' Albus raises his eyebrows.

'Yeah…what?' He kicks the trunk and laughs but his voice gets higher when he says, 'What's wrong with animals?'

'Nothing.'

He's still smiling, it's big, bright, all teeth and slight dimples on his pale cheeks. It's – it's really glorious. 'I love them, so interesting.'

Albus clears his throat, 'Interesting?'

'Oh yeah! It's so fascinating. Like, okay, take dragons. Man, how the fuck can they produce fire? _Fire? _From within themselves? Fire, which would kill them in any other circumstance.' He pauses, thinking, 'And unicorns, now, they're really fascinating, so pure right, something so pure that if killed, they curse you. But they will keep you alive anyway.' He shakes his head.

'But curse you.' Albus infers.

'Weeeell,' he taps his pointed chin with his pointer finger, 'you'd still be alive though, cursed or not, wouldn't you rather be alive?'

He bites his cheeks. His own shoes are near the other boy's thick dark boots on the trunk. He slowly moves them away. He still doesn't know. So, he only shrugs.

'I think I would, maybe, probably.' His hands flail as he talks, demanding attention, 'Despite my not knowing what it would be like, surely anything is better than death?'

Albus says nothing.

He continues, unperturbed by the silence. 'What would you rather be, a Dragon or a Unicorn?'

The randomness of the conversation almost makes him laugh, but he only says, 'I don't know.'

The blond scoffs, but he smiles, he hasn't stopped, 'Dragons maybe swing it for me. I fucking hate being cold.'

'Cold?'

'Dragons must be fucking boiling, don't you think? All that internal fire and shit. Like a built-in furnace. Sounds good to me. My house is always freezing, and I can't stand it. Is Hogwarts cold? Durmstrang too, was bitterly fucking cold, every part of it.'

Albus doesn't know what he means by that but doesn't ask either. He nods.

'Shit, what? Hogwarts is cold?'

'Depends.' Albus replies.

'On what?'

'Your house.'

'My house? Well, fucking great, my home is the literal arctic, my father, he insists – '

'Sorry, I meant school house.' Albus interjects, biting his lips.

'Oh, shit yeah! How could I forget.' He slaps his forehead. 'We didn't have those at Durmstrang, just all, you know,' his hands swirl 'together. Houses, gods, yeah. They sorted me back in July, I'm a snake, a _Slytherin_.'

'Me too.' Albus nods and moves his feet, pointing towards the serpent adorning the top of his trunk.

'Oh, shit, that's incredible.' The boy kneels beside the trunk, his fingers running over the green and silver scales of the thick python. His head in near Albus' knees and when he looks up and says, 'Did you draw this?' Albus can't help but look down at him.

'Long time ago.'

'This – it's, it's really bloody good.' They look at each-other, then there is a pause, where their eyes linger in the silence, and those flowers blooming and growing within him, they wind their way around his chest cavity and bloom so bright, it tightens, and he can't breathe. 'Honestly.'

'It's old.' Albus brings his feet back up onto the trunk, covering the art he did as a twelve-year old. The other boy stands and Albus realises, he is rather small. A head smaller than himself, if not more. The hair on his head is thick and practically white, angelic. But his features are strong, a slim long nose, pointed slightly at the end, a solid jaw, holding red plump lips atop his equally pointed chin. His skin is pale, porcelain pale, like the sun has never gotten to look at him. But he doesn't need the sun, Albus thinks, he shines bright enough.

'Are you Muggle-Born?' He looks awkward saying it, as if waiting for Albus to be offended at his question. He realises that perhaps one day, years ago, his blood status would have mattered, maybe it still did to some people, maybe to this man, it still mattered.

'Half-blood.' He replies, shortly, testing him. He has no place for many people in his life, but at the top of that group were those who stuck to the repulsive ideals of the past.

'Ah, sorry, I just thought - with all – well you know, some of – reading and – muggle – ah, never mind. It doesn't matter anyway, does it?'

'Not at all.' He says, eyes hard, ready to argue if the guy sours at his acceptance. But of course -

The blond nods. 'Yeah, no, yeah, Durmstrang, they thought it mattered.' His face contorts into nothing but disgust, it didn't suite him. 'Fucking place, their twisted ideals. They don't accept muggle-borns you know, teach _against _muggles. They believe we're superior as well, like, incredibly so. Just because what, we can use a wand? Well, I can't fucking drive a motor vehicle, I can't fly a plane, I'm in no way – magical people are in no way superior.' He drops his head into his hands and turns his face.

'I agree.' He clarifies firmly.

'Yeah, good, everyone should. Not everyone does.'

'You think?' Albus likes to think such ridiculous prejudices were now a mere stain on their history.

'I know so.' He mumbles. Then quickly, 'Like I said, we heard nothing else, Durmstrang endorsed it, that ridiculous prejudice.'

'I see.'

Then he laughs, this odd stranger with his laughter that can't seem to be contained. He clasps his hands before him. Then leans back against the seat. 'My mum once said that there are two things you should never talk about to a stranger.'

'Oh?' Albus wonders, 'What did she say?'

'Politics and religion, she said were a no go, if, she said, if I had any chance of meeting someone sincere. I think we've spoken about both.'

'Religion?' He squints at him, 'When?'

He waves his hand in Albus' direction. 'Hell, Dante, that's a little of religion, no?'

'Somewhat, yeah, I suppose' He nods.

'Exactly. We've covered the bases I swore never to cover. Damn you, my mother wouldn't be very impressed.'

'Hey, I never – '

'I'm only kidding.'

The man's eyes practically shine against the low light of the dismal morning. Albus nods. He bites his lips. He bites his cheeks. His eyes watch the outside world flash by in spectacles of colours. Blue. Grey. Green. Brown. Green. Grey. Grey. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Minutes pass, Albus feels light, somehow. His eyes stay closed.

'Are you going to sleep?' He wasn't going too, but he nods anyway. 'Oh, could I perhaps read your book, then, maybe, if that's okay?' Albus opens an eye and nods. He passes him the book.

'Thank you. Thank you. I won't keep it.'

'It's okay.'

He never falls asleep on trains, not anywhere but his bed and even then, it is barely sleep. In some messed up logic of his, he doesn't want to lower his guard in such a public place. But he feels placated, he doesn't feel vulnerable here. And tiredness seeps in. His mind wanders, but nothing dark flashes by, and he welcomes the relief of that. Just before his mind switches off, just before he drifts away, he hears,

'I didn't say before, sorry, I'm Scorpius.'

'I'm Albus.' He replies, before sleep takes hold.

Groggy and lethargic. He remembers why sleeping on trains has never previously appealed to him.

There is no movement. It is dark outside. The carriage is lightly lit. He momentarily wonders if he's been forgotten, if everyone's got off without him. Is he on his way back to London? His heart races, paces -

'I tried to wake you.' He gasps. Not expecting a voice. He stands by the door, illuminated in the darkness. His trunk in his hand. 'I tried to wake you up,' he repeats, 'you sleep like a log.' Again, with the grin. 'We're here.'

Albus nods. His head is full of fluff. Full of sleep. He shakes it. The boy at the door, merlin, he'd thought he'd dreamt him.

His trunk feels lighter than earlier.

They are the last on the train.

'Did you hear me before?' Scorpius asks as they walk towards the carriages in the moonlight. Albus leading the way.

'When?'

'Before you filled the compartment with incessant snoring.'

'What?' His eyebrows pull together, 'I did not.'

'No, you didn't.' His grey eyes watch him, then look away. 'I'm Scorpius.'

'I heard, Albus.'

He feels him nudge his shoulder, but he's small, so it brushes his arm instead, 'Nooo_, you're_ Albus, I'm Scorpius.'

'I know that – '

His laugh is loud and bright in the patchy darkness, with only candle light leading their way. 'Albus, Albus, where have I heard that before?' He taps his chin, looking ridiculous and - endearing.

Albus tells him what he tells everyone who realises, 'Albus Dumbledore.'

'Of, course. Albus Dumbledore. We were taught aplenty about Albus Dumbledore, at Durmstang.'

Albus must look down, to meet his eyes. 'Really,' he says.

'Headmaster of Hogwarts School. Chief Warlock. Enthused by the Deathly Hallows. Yada yada yada, he was an old friend of Durmstrang, Albus Dumbledore.' For some reason, he wants to tell him to stop saying the name, but he doesn't. 'Did you know him?' Scorpius asks as they board the second to last carriage. They are alone.

'My parents did.'

'Did they? Did they know him well?'

'Must have.'

'Suppose, to name you after him. I was named after a constellation. Named from the stars. Most of my family are. A bit shit really, why couldn't they change it up a little? You know? Scorpius. My middle name is Hyperion.'

'Oh, The High-one.' Replies Albus. But really, he's thinking about how he's named from the stars and how poignant that seems. Stars are so bright and everywhere, so like him, Scorpius, how bright he seems, in body and mind, how he's suddenly everywhere.

'What?' Scorpius eyes him curiously.

'Hyperion.'

'Is that what it means – the high one?'

He nods. Then,

'Albus?' His grey eyes elsewhere. Looking at the front of the carriage. 'Can you see them?'

'I can.'

He'd become immune to sight of the Thestrals. He'd been seeing them for years.

'Me too.'

'Can you?' He hadn't expected that. 'Can you really?'

Scorpius turns to him. Runs a hand through his hair. It's thick and so blonde. It curls against his neck. Albus looks back at his eyes, he blinks. 'I can. Why are they – why – what are they?' He looks away, back to the horses, the creatures, and moves over toward the edge of the carriage and gently strokes the Thestrals long bony neck. Albus grits his teeth.

'Thestrals.'

'Thestrals. My gods, I've never seen anything like it.' He turns back to face him. 'Are they fed?'

Albus guffaws. 'Are they what?'

'Fed, do they feed them? My - shit, they're so bony, look, look, it's all they are. Are they even – alive?' He gasps and clutches the creatures neck. It snorts, puffing air from its nose.

'I – don't know.' He can't keep the distain from his voice. In what world would this man have to see these creatures. He shouldn't have experienced what is needed, to see them. How can a world be so ugly to permit that?

'They must be. But fucking hell, are they okay?' He strokes the neck of the creature which snorts at his touch. 'I've never seen anything like it! Albus, are we taught about Thestrals?'

'No.' He replies quickly and looks away.

'To have been here since I was that young,' his hot breath whispers into his ear as they watch Tonkin, Hilary take her seat at the Hufflepuff table to an array of honest cheer, 'it must be such an experience.'

Infinitesimally Albus leans closer, 'Durmstrang wasn't?' He asks.

'No, fuck that place.' His goblet of juice snaps against the table as he sets it down too quickly, liquid sloshing over the side. 'Shit, shit, sorry.'

'Don't worry about it.' Albus shakes his head and mops it up.

'This hall is really beautiful isn't it? The whole castle – just awe inspiring don't you think? I suppose you're used to it by now. Do you remember your first experience of Hogwarts?' Scorpius wonders.

'Vaguely,' Albus moves his food around his plate, 'It was a long time ago.' He'll never forget it. The dejection on his brothers face as the Sorting Hat announced his Slytherin fate. How Rose had cried for some reason, after sitting alone with the Gryffindors. He'd been welcome with the Slytherins and got drunk afterwards, he didn't remember the night after that.

'Dad told me beforehand he'd thought I'd get put into Ravenclaw, when I told him it was Slytherin I'd been given, he wasn't best pleased, even though that was where he was too.'

'My parents were in Gryffindor.' Albus replies.

Scorpius turns fully on the bench, he straddles it, then bites his thumb nail and looks at him. Albus watches him back, eyes straining not to admire what his thumb is doing and where it is. 'Were they? Is that unusual, for them to be Gryffindor and you to be Slytherin. I never asked, do you have any siblings, I don't – are they in Slytherin too?'

'I'm the only Slytherin, everyone else is a Gryffindor actually.' Scorpius frowns at him, his light eyebrows bowing down, his lips fall and a small little dimple appears on his chin. Those eyes are sympathetic, so disgustingly so that he looks away from them.

'Slytherin's the fucking best, though right?' He says eventually, his hand wrapping around Albus' bicep. He squeezes. 'We're conniving and ambitious and – sassy.'

A laugh bursts out of him, 'Sassy?'

'Damn right,' Scorpius flicks non-existent hair from his shoulders, 'Sass masters.'

And Albus laughs through his nose, a few puffs of air. But more that he's laughed in years. Butterflies accompany the blooming flowers in the previously empty cavity of his chest.

Professor McGonagall ushers Scorpius into her office as they are walking from the Great Hall. He insists he'll meet Albus in the common room. But it occurs to Albus that he doesn't know where that is. So, he stands awkwardly outside. Back against the wall as hordes of students rush past him. Then someone grabs his arm.

'Albus, Albus, there you are!' Rose pulls herself out of the crowd.

'Here I am.' He replies. He shakes her hand off.

'James, he said you weren't coming to Dad's birthday. He'll be forty-seven.'

'Will he?' He doesn't know that. He doesn't know why it matters.

'Yes, it's something big, everyone's going to be there, Albus, why can't you _just come?_' Her tone gives no room for argument, but alas -

He couldn't. He didn't want too. His father – his mother – he didn't want too. 'I'm sorry.'

'No, you're not.' Her face grows red, her eyes cold, 'You aren't sorry at all.' She steps up to him, her toes bang his toes. 'Why can't you just be normal Albus, it's a fucking party for – gods, why is it so hard for you to be _normal!' _Her brown eyes widen, they search his own out intrusively. He just stands, stoic, hands in his pockets, eyes on her face. 'Why are you like this? You have always been this way! Why! My gods, my gods, I'm sick of your shit.'

'Okay.'

She screeches, people rushing past them look over. But Rose just shoves his chest and groans. 'I'm fucking done. Don't come, fuck it, no one want's you there anyway, fucking lowlife.'

She retreats, her face redder, her fingers in her hair. Albus watches her go, and thinks, yes, why can't you just be _normal?_

They sit in the small alcove, under the window looking out onto the Black Lake. Albus reads Dante's Inferno. Scorpius copies his timetable in different colours into his diary.

'I asked Professor McGonagall about the Thestrals.' Says Scorpius slowly.

Albus hovers his finger over his sentence and looks up. 'Did you?'

He nods. 'She said it was unfortunate that I could see them.' He uses a green quill to write Potions, he uses a purple one to write Charms. Then Albus says,

'It is.'

Scorpius shrugs.

Albus casts his eyes back to Dante, he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to think about why Scorpius can see Thestrals.

'Was yours? Was yours sad? What you saw to – see them?' He bites the end of his red quill. Guiltily, like he knows how loaded such a question is. The ink drips onto his diary. One drop, two, three, six drops until Albus speaks.

'I don't want to talk about it.' He pretends to read. It's awkward for a moment. Something uncomfortable snakes up his spine, he doesn't want to reject his curiosity, but Scorpius shouldn't be marred by his own darkness.

'That's okay, sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Mum always said I was too fucking nosey for my own good.' He writes Transfiguration in Orange.

'Did she say, fucking nosey?' Says Albus because – because –

Scorpius laughs and Albus feels like laughing too but doesn't. 'Holy shit, no. She never swore.'

He doesn't miss his use of past tense. It makes him shuffle against the cold leather of his seat, 'Never?'

'Ever. She was very proper, very neat, very pertinent, in every way.' Grey eyes illuminate with feeling. 'She was beautiful.'

He nods, dumbly, fucking _nods_, then looks awkwardly back at his novel. His novel, he hasn't read a word of it all day. He tosses it on to the black wooden desk between them. 'Do you want it?'

Scorpius pulls the book towards him. 'Really?' He traces the creases in the cover and looks at Albus with his grey, unyielding eyes. 'Really?' He repeats.

'Yes, of course.'

'Thank you. Want one of my quills?' he rolls the colourful quills towards Albus, all have bright feathers, pink, blue, green, purple, orange, yellow. He could use them to draw, perhaps, but he hasn't drawn anything in so long. He shakes his head.

'Thank you, though.'

Scorpius rolls a green towards him. 'Come on, take it. Draw another serpent.'

Albus takes it, though he knows he won't.

**_ (September 5_****_th_****_) _**

Scorpius watches the group of people filter into the room. Albus Potter towers above them all, his thick arms crossed over his muscular chest, he says nothing, he is silent, like a pillar, the others mill and mull around him, like a thick tall pole of cement, he is ignored.

'Albus,' he says just to get him moving, or talking, or noticed.

'Yeah?' He turns his head and looks at him, eyes squinted, as if someone calling his name was something unrecognised and foreign. Scorpius lifts his eyebrows, not knowing what to say, he could ask why he woke up last night, how he heard the sounds, he could ask if he's alright. He probably should and if no one else was here he might, but there are, and these people won't even acknowledge him, never mind ask why he cries when he sleeps.

'Where's the library?' he shows him his copy of Hogwarts: A History, 'My book says it's fucking huge, with a restricted section and everything.'

Albus nods, 'It's – I'll show you, it's not far.' And he moves from the wall. He's changed from his school uniform into black denim jeans and a grey t-shirt, dark trainers. It makes him seem darker, less approachable maybe, if Scorpius didn't feel so strangely at ease around him, he would probably be intimidated.

Their room-mates, the three other guys in the room, barely make eye contact with him, but their gazes aren't unsteady or coy, they just seem to look through him, indifferent. But as they are leaving, he turns back and notices the three of them staring at their backs, their faces poised in something like laughter.

They find an empty table right at the back of the library, between the Muggle Studies and Muggle/ Magical Universes sections. Scorpius' gaze lingers a little too long on the restricted section beside them, stacks of books upon books behind a six-foot glass wall.

He sits at the small two-seater table, his knee's knock into Albus' whose long limbs take up too much space, he settles in putting his own smaller legs between Albus' knees. It is only when he's emptied his backpack of its entire contents that he can meet his eyes.

'Did you know,' he says, 'this is the newest version of Hogwarts: A History, so you might know some people in it. There's a whole section on the battle.' Albus doesn't reply, so Scorpius says, 'You know, the Battle of Hogwarts.' And to that Albus lifts his head so Scorpius continues, 'Yeah, I'm sure you know all about it, but I'm just learning. My Dad doesn't talk about any of that, ever, so I barely knew it happened. But there are so many books on the Battle and the before and aftermath and everything. Do you know much about it?'

Something passes over Albus' face, but then he blinks and it is gone, but not missed by an unblinking Scorpius. He clears his throat, 'I suppose no one likes talking about it, it was war wasn't it, I'm not sure there's anything as brutal as war.' He pauses, considering, 'Or perhaps there are many brutalities of life, and for some people war is just one of them.'

'I don't think we can imagine what life is like amidst war.' Albus replies unsteadily.

'No, no, I don't think so either – ' he almost apologises, just for the look on his face, he shouldn't have said anything, he's always doing that, sometimes he has no filter, he doesn't think enough before speaking, especially to someone he barely knows, but for some reason, even though he knows he shouldn't, he says, 'But that's a good thing isn't it. We're the products of war maybe, the orphans of it, because our parents lived it and we just see them and how they deal with the war they lived. The new products of the people they are after war, that's all we see.'

Scorpius doesn't expect it, but Albus nods and even better he replies, 'Do you think so?'

Spurred on, Scorpius admits, 'I think I'd like to think – ' he rolls his eyes at his word choice, 'I _mean, _sometimes I know my Dad sees it again. I don't know what happened, like I say, he'd never tell me and I wouldn't expect him too. But sometimes noises scare him, certain spells he won't ever do, he shakes a lot. But I never saw any of those aspects of him as odd until I realised that maybe he wasn't always like that, he wasn't always so reserved and cold. There must have been a time in his life where he smiled, or laughed even, but I'll never know that person, because war happened and changed him. Changed so many people.'

'I've never thought of it like that.'

'Me either, I took the selfish approach and just thought my Dad was miserable, but there's always so much more to why someone is why they are, so many layers to them.' He looks at Albus as he says it, 'Layers accumulated by war, or hurt, or – anything, people are all different and react to different things – differently – oh my – ' he laughs, 'Man, am I even making any fucking sense right now?'

He doesn't laugh, he says, 'You are.'

'I had a diary at Durstrang, I have it somewhere, you'd laugh if you read it, it's full of shit like that, me trying to figure the mysteries of the world.'

'Did you ever solve any?'

Between the book shelves which held within them their own answers to entirely different mysteries, on their little table, in the corner of a crowded library, Albus' knee knocks against his and Scorpius grins, all teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**_(September 8_****_th_****_) _**

A cluster of oversized books are thrown down heavily on the table. Scorpius jumps.

'Holy shit!' He holds his chest, 'Holy – '

'Sorry.' She smiles awkwardly, strangely. 'Didn't realise they were so heavy.'

He looks over. 'Herbology textbooks are usually pretty destructive.'

'No, do you take Potions, now _those _things are destructive. Florence Bunch once had one thrown at her head, she was concussed for weeks.'

'No way,' Scorpius raises his eyebrows, 'shit me. How is that allowed?'

'The book? Ah, they got rid of it soon after, poor Flo could never take another Potions class again, she was so good too.'

'Shame.' He replies.

A beat.

'Could I sit – '

'Course.' He nods. 'I'm Scorpius, just so you know.'

'I know, I've heard. I'm Emily.'

He taps the page of his text book with a blue quill. 'Heard, what?'

She shrugs, opens her book. Dust flies as it flips open.

'Just – 'she looks up. 'We don't get many new students, people just – 'she shrugs again.

He frowns, stops his tapping, 'Just – what?'

'They talk.'

'Oh, kay.' He didn't know how he feels about being the peak of people's curiosity, no matter how innocent.

'I like your hair.' She watches him. 'Is it natural, so blonde?'

'Erm, yeah, course.'

He feels her eyes on him, watching, watching. He looks up and meets her gaze. Scorpius tries not to squint at her. 'Is there some – '

'You don't look much like your _father_, do you?' She's smiles at him widely. Her eyes beaming. 'do you?' Emily repeats louder, leaning forward, her palms against the table as if she's waiting on his answer, and if his answer will mean something.

'Er, what, I suppose - '

'Ha! Ha!'

Emily stands, knocking back her chair, fists punching the air.

'What does – '

'I _fucking _knew it.' Her hands push the textbook aside; she reaches and grabs his parchment from under his hands. Her eyes scan it. 'Malfoy, fucking Scorpius _Malfoy. Malfoy.' _

'And?' Scorpius scowls, 'What of it?'

She looks at him incredulously, just _gapes _at him. Then throws the parchment in his face. 'Malfoy. That's not quite your actual name, now is it, _Scorpius.' _She cuts him a sharp look before looking at someone behind him. 'Macmillan, you shit, you owe me five galleons.'

Rough hands clamp down on his shoulders, hot breath in his ear, 'No fucking way, it _is _the _Malfoy_.'

Emily moves in front of him, she swipes his desk clean, his coloured pens create a rainbow on the floor. Her face inches from his, '_Voldemort_ spawn, who let you in?' Her eyes baleful, she knocks her hand into his forehead, snapping his head backward.

'The _fuck – ' _Scorpius stands, 'The fuck is – ' Emily smiles at the man behind him and Scorpius turns around. He's smaller and no broader than the boy named Macmillan. 'What the fuck is your problem?' He shoves his nose into his face, grips the cotton of his jumper and pushes him back into the side of a bookcase.

'Fuck you, scum, disgusting, fucking inbred scum!' Thick fingers wrap around his throat and press, digging into his windpipe. Scorpius shoves his own hands around the other man's neck. He pushes his thumbs against his clavicle, trying to find purchase but his hands are too small.

He feels his face heat up with pressure, he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Blood is getting trapped in his face, pressure, so much. His hands begin to relax around the other man. But he can't, can't let him win. His grappling hands find his jumper again and they pull him forward only to knock him back, solidly against the bookshelf.

But the man's hands do not relent.

Dark spots flicker at the sides of his vision. He pulls Macmillan forward again, choking, choking, why is no one helping? And shoves him roughly against the bookshelf. Once, twice, three times, the hands only grow tighter. He's going to – he's -

Scorpius heaves him forward, one last time, and with a groan, he throws the man into the corner of the shelf.

The pressure releases. He pants, pants, pants.

He faints.

* * *

Albus sits behind the starched white curtain.

Scorpius has purple cheeks, Madam Pomfrey says they're swollen.

He looks away from her curious gaze, but he does not leave.

**_(September 10_****_th_****_) _**

Albus passes Rose in the corridor. She captures his arm and pulls him to the side. Her acrylic nails dig into his flesh and he steps away, so she lets go.

She notices, obviously, and frowns, 'Is he your friend?' She all but whispers.

'Who?' He knows who she's referring too, of course. He's just riling her, perhaps, he just wants to talk more.

Rose eyes him jejunely, 'That, Scorpius – '

'I suppose.'

'Mac says he didn't mean it, said they were only having a laugh – '

Albus looks away, doubting it, wanting to fight her assumption but he doesn't know what to say.

His silence all too familiar, Rose sighs heavily and crosses her arms, 'You know, you'll never actually _keep_ friends if you don't actually speak to them.'

He knows that, obviously, but he doesn't say so, of course. He just stares at the languidly burning flame behind her.

'Fuck sake Albus,' she scowls, 'do you ever listen?'

'I do, yes.'

He listens too much, sometimes.

* * *

Scorpius is awake, cross legged in the middle of the bed, it makes him hesitate at the door. So, for a moment Albus only observes. He watches, he's so good at that. Just looking from the outside.

He should leave, he should obey the metaphorical sign about the door which reads, 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.' He shouldn't pass through, he shouldn't, he shouldn't. He's so small and vulnerable on the bed, with his too-long hospital gown and pale pale skin.

'Is – Albus?'

Big grey eyes meet his. Circles of red have overridden the white with the pressure of Macmillan's fist. He makes himself walk over.

'Hello.' Albus stands awkwardly at the end of the bed, his lips tight. He can't help but wonder; what is he doing?

But Scorpius doesn't notice or care for his hesitation, his awkward, looming presence, he just says, 'Hello, hello, did you bring those?' There are spots of bruises on his neck, small marks where fingers dug too deep into his pale skin. He points to the pile of books on the small wooden table. Albus nods. But his eyes on the bruises. Dark and purple. They make him hot all over, his fists clench at his sides, his teeth grind against each-other. Scorpius sees him watching and smooths his hands over his neck. Albus blinks and looks away.

'Oh, thank you,' he replies, 'Dante's journey was a little – noxious – I hadn't even got past the vestibule before I put it down – '

Albus takes a step forward, hands squeezing the bedframe, 'Really?'

'Don't look at me like that, I told you it was dark shit, even before I got to hell people were suffering!'

They pause.

He can't help himself, he says, 'Your neck…'

'My neck, fuck my neck, fucking Macmillan, whoever he is,' Scorpius pauses, thinking, then squints at him and says, 'do you know? Do you know my last name?'

Albus, still trying to decipher the face of Macmillan, pauses and shakes his head, 'I don't think so.' He doesn't, he finds himself realising he never even wondered.

'It's Malfoy,' Scorpius replies quickly, '_Malfoy.' _Grey, red, eyes seek his face, up, over, up, down. He squints and scrutinizes. What is he searching for, he wants to ask, what do you keep searching for?

'Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?' Replies Albus.

'My father, yes.' Still scowling, still searching.

'Okay,' Albus nods, trying to understand what it means, why it matters. 'so?'

Scorpius grunts and throw his arms in the air. 'Exactly, exactly!' He lays back into the pillows, arms outstretched, 'Who the fuck cares!'

'I don't understand.'

Scorpius tells him.

'I still don't understand.' Albus sighs through his teeth.

'No?' Scorpius stares at the ceiling, 'me fucking either.'

* * *

A storm erupts in the middle of the night, but it doesn't awake an unsleeping Albus, who rolls over in his pyjamas and bare feet, he silences his steps with his wand and walks through the hallways like his father and brother before him. His usual escape route is a broken window in a small broom cupboard in an unused classroom on the first floor.

Outside the force of the storm almost knocks him off his feet. But he steadies himself against the wall of the castle and walks towards the black lake, like usual. Water swirls and swirls with the wind, almost in a typhoon, but Albus takes no notice and lays beside it, his face numb against the sting of the rain. He doesn't close his eyes despite the biting cold against them, he strains them open. Maybe it'll make him tired, or so tense that he'll just collapse when he tries to stand up again.

Lightening cracks into the darkness, and for a moment everything flashes white. The beast of the black lake breaks from the water and wails in great distress or perhaps great happiness, before diving back underneath. All the while Albus lays there, and in those short few moments in so much chaos he screams screams screams into the storm.

_**(14****th**_**_ September)_ **

Lily stops him in the corridor in the period between Potions and Charms. Scorpius stops too, but she ushers him on.

'Lily?'

'Albus!' She hisses through her teeth, her green eyes on the retreating Scorpius. 'What are you _doing?' _Her small hand grabs his arm. He looks down at her, frowning.

'What?'

She blinks up to him, then back down the corridor, 'Him,' she lets go of him and points to the blonde head, in the distance now, 'haven't you been hearing what people are saying?'

His eyes find Scorpius, he scowls, 'What are they saying?'

She sighs, 'Do you always answer questions with a question?'

'What are they saying?' he looks back.

'Albus! Seriously!' Small hands shove him, 'have you seriously not heard anything?'

'I haven't.'

Lily grounds her teeth before replying, 'They're saying that that new kid, Scorpius, is it? The Malfoy, is not a Malfoy at all!'

Albus watches her, he blinks.

She shoves his chest again, 'Albus, people are saying that he's the son of – 'she pauses, for effect? 'of you-know-who!' Lily then backs away, eyes like plates, 'you know, Voldemort!' Her face cringes at the use of that name, 'Can you believe it!'

'No.' He could laugh! He would laugh! If he could, if he did laugh, he would.

'I know,' she's shaking her head, 'I know, it's _awful, _how they let anyone in this school like that, with a father like that!'

'Lily – '

'You have to be careful Albus, who knows what he's like with a father like that! No wonder he talks to you. My gods, my gods, aren't you scared?'

'No. Lily who -'

'Don't try and be tough Albus, I know you, just because he might be a friend to you doesn't mean anything. People are saying he's capable of things, you know, like Voldemort was? Capable of Dark magic, things,' she pauses, sighs sadly, 'thing's we can't – magic beyond our comprehension!'

'Lily, really, you – '

'Just be careful Albus, stay away from freaks like that.' She smiles at him, then backs away and folds into the crowd.

**_(15_****_th_****_ September) _**

People hsssssssss, hsssssss, hsssssss, in his ear as they sit in class. They hiss hiss hiss at him in the corridors.

Scorpius smiles, he ignores them, he watches Albus with his unrelenting grey eyes and they speak about everything and nothing at all. Albus learns that Scorpius is a great student, a studier, he relishes in knowing things and understanding what he is learning. They frequent the library even though Scorpius arches his back at the sound of raised voices. Albus pretends not to notice his unease but he does, so he tries to distract Scorpius by asking questions he knows will entice him.

He notices little traits he would never ponder on any other. Scorpius writes in a different colour every-day, there is no pattern, he doesn't think, he can't decipher it at least. He reads almost as arduously as himself, but whilst Albus endures the trials and tribulations of old English literature, Scorpius reads anything – anything, as long as there is a meaning to it, not just an amalgamation of random words procuring a story which teaches him nothing about a life he is trying to understand.

People push him in the classroom when the teachers back is turned, pinch him, pull his chair out from under him as he's sitting down. In the lessons they share, Albus shoves them, scowls, swears in their placid faces, and it stops them, sometimes, but there are times, he knows, there are times when he isn't there and things happen, he sees the bruises, can tell when Scorpius is attempting to feign happiness when his spirit is dampened.

Mark Macmillan walks into Muggle Studies one afternoon, the teacher gasps. Mark, Mark, what happened? She wonders. But Macmillan says nothing. His face swollen, his eyes black with bruises. Is that a stinging jinx? Scorpius whispers beside him. Albus nods.

**_(28_****_th_****_ September)_**

Professor Doss leans against her desk, she looks as Scorpius' flapping hand in the air with tired eyes, folds her arms.

'Yes, Mister – '

'I was just wondering as to why they are called earphones, as appose to maybe, something like, hear-phones, you know? I mean, I understand the initial reasoning, of course, but it would also make sense to have them as _hear_phones as well,' he pauses for breath, 'one could argue that they are named as such due to them being also used in the muffling of sounds, and thus not entirely used for listening, but that is their main concept. Unlike ears muffs, ear plugs, which do entirely only muffle noise.'

His eyes wide, Scorpius bites his bottom lip, taps his foot against the floor. Professor Doss does not suppress her sigh.

'I honestly, do not know – '

'Oh? Oh, okay, that's okay, I'll check later,' he leans back and Professor Doss begins the lesson again. The boys behind them hiss hiss hiss. Fifteen minutes' pass and Albus smirks when Scorpius' hand rises once more. Doss ignores him until, 'Professor?'

Her hand smacks against the chalkboard, smudging the words _calling _and _texting. _'Malfoy, I am sure – '

'Sorry, sorry, I just – ' he looks at Albus, who raises his brows and nods, 'is there any way it would be possible to maybe have a practical on this subject?'

'A practical,' she looks incredulously around at her students as if asking them for help, then back at Scorpius, 'with telephones?'

'Oh, yes.' He replies. Albus watches Scorpius out of the corner of his eye, watches as he almost bounces on his chair.

The professor snorts rudely, 'No Mister Malfoy, I don't believe that is appropriate.' Her mocking tone causes sniggers behind them.

Someone shoves Scorpius' shoulder, leans forward and whispers, 'Who gives a shit, shut the _fuck _up man!' Scorpius ignores it. He just shrugs.

'I'll find my own, thanks though.'

**_ (14_****_th_****_ October)_**

Albus Potter begins to accept the notion that he has a friend.

Someone who isn't family, who, doesn't have too, at the request of their parents, act cordially to him just to make sure he isn't alone in the world. Just to make sure he isn't wallowing in the darkness of his mind. Making sure he doesn't fall into the inevitable oblivion he longs for.

His family retreat further and further from him, perhaps enjoying their diminishing responsibility. In turn Scorpius drifts, ever closer to him, ever closer, and Albus realizes that he, like himself, has no one else.

Albus tries to withhold himself. Tries to restrain himself around his friend. His _friend. _His ambitious, selfless, outspoken, beautiful, friend.

Always, he has known he was just a little – different, unique perhaps, obscure. Since a child. Since he admired the hard plains of muscular bodies in the presence of soft rounded curves. No one ever asked, and he never told. There was nothing to tell, with something that he didn't understand himself. Something he could just ignore.

But now –

Now –

There was nothing else he could think about.

At night, those long deep breathes heard from beside him. In and out. Sometimes he looks over, because they talk so deep into the night, Scorpius leaves a little space near his head, and he looks over, where he lies, bathed in silver moonlight. His head turned towards him, mouth slightly open, pale eye lashes against his cheeks. Sometimes he groans, or whispers, or speaks. He laughs in his sleep. He's never met a person who was so full of light that it could not be contained, even as they slept.

An enigma, he is. An anomaly.

There are times Albus just looks at him, or watches, or listens, or even thinks about him, and in moments of weakness he wonders what it would be like – to be his.

'When is your birthday?' The mid-October sun hangs low in the sky. The library is cast in orange and yellow. Scorpius sits across from him on the too-small table they frequent in a silent corner of the library.

'November seventh.' Albus says.

'Is it? Mines not until the 27th of July.' Scorpius tells him, and bites his lip, grinds it with his teeth. He watches Albus as he bends over a half-finished Potions essay, then smiles to himself.

'What do you want?' He wonders aloud.

Albus looks up and frowns, 'What?'

Scorpius sticks out his tongue, but as always, Albus doesn't laugh, though Scorpius does, 'For your birthday, duh.'

'Nothing.' He looks at him, as if his question were offensive.

'Don't look at me like that, why are you looking like that, like I just pissed in your pumpkin juice?' Scorpius sighs heavily, then jabs his toe against Albus' knee. 'Hey?'

'What? Nothing.'

'Well, sorry for asking.' He huffs, annoyed at the dismissal, who didn't want a birthday present? But before he can ask, there is a shriek behind them and Scorpius tenses, turns,

'My god, my gods, as if he's still _here!' _A young blue clad, Ravenclaw? tugs on the sleeve of the boy beside her who looks sternly towards the both of them.

'Hey, hey,' he walks over and stands before Scorpius. 'Can't you see you're scaring her!' His voice rises with every word, 'I thought Macmillan dealt well enough with you!'

'It's a library, stop shouting.'

'What the _fuck _did you say?' He jabs his finger into Scorpius' chest.

'It's a library.'

'You don't belong here.' He spits, 'You aren't welcome here, not in this school, never mind the library, arsehole.' His hands clutch at Scorpius' jumper who looks down at them, then back up.

'I suggest you let go of me,' His lips contort into a smile, 'for if I am who you say I am, then do you really – '

The girl screams, 'So he is, he is, my gods – '

The cartilage of Scorpius' nose crunches under the force of the punch and his neck snaps to the side with the next one. The Ravenclaws hand twitches for a third time. He strikes, but Albus is there, his massive fist squeezing the boys fist. Scorpius is behind him suddenly, he doesn't know how but he can see the tension in his broad shoulders, one fist curled tightly at his side, Scorpius holds his own hands under his bleeding nose.

'Stop, stop _now_.' Albus shoves the man's fist back, he stumbles. But Albus follows him, pushes him onto the floor.

Blood drip drip drip drips into his palm, Scorpius breathes in puffs through his mouth, he hears, 'God, you're fucking crazy! Everyone says so!'

'Paul, let's just go.'

'They're fucking crazy Alice, fucking mad – you freaks!'

He steps back and back, spitting insults at them until he is out of sight.

Yann Fredericks, one of their four other room-mates is already in the dorm when they arrive.

'Holy shit, what happened to him?'

'Not much.' Scorpius replies. Sits on his bed. Albus hands him a flannel. The blood oozes brightly from his nose, coating it in crimson.

Yann moves from his desk. 'Some punch that, is it broken?'

Scorpius nods, his nose bleeds, bleeds, bleeds.

'Want me to fix it?' Albus offers, sitting across from him on his own bed. He taps his wand against his thigh. His other hand comes out as Scorpius removes the flannel, he taps his wand against it, clearing the blood before pushing it back under his nose.

Yann watches them both. 'Who did it? Who punched you?'

'on't know,' blood gathers in his mouth, 'wavenclaw – '

'Over this Voldemort theory?' Yann questions.

Scorpius nods.

He snorts. 'Who can believe that? Gods, idiots.' He sits beside Albus.

'Want me to fix it?' Albus repeats.

'Please.'

Yann laughs, 'Honestly, as if anyone can believe that you could be Voldemort's kid?'

'Mmm.'

Albus kneels in front of him, then leans over, his face inches away. Scorpius looks him in the eye then quickly looks away. He bites his cheeks as heat rises in his face. He looks at Yann. Who is still laughing.

'Just because you're a Malfoy! And you're not even a good one!' He chuckles, 'some fucking people.' He shakes his head. Scorpius just keeps watching Yann as Albus' finger touches his chin, tilts it down. Their faces now centimetres apart. He holds his breath.

Yann stops laughing. Clears his throat, then Scorpius watches with unseeing eyes as he scowls at them, shakes his head and retreats to his desk, his back to them.

'Stop moving.' Albus' breath makes his hair move. It's hot and sweet against his cheek, he squeezes his eyes shut, says nothing.

'Episkey!'

It clicks, he groans and his shaking hand holds his nose. 'Oh, my fuck, ow!'

Albus pauses, still so close, then moves jarringly, sits on the opposite bed, as if he'd only just noticed how close they were. 'Looks normal, does it feel okay?'

Scorpius nods. 'Still bleeding though.'

'I know a spell to clean it, but not stop it, I'm sorry.'

Scorpius rolls his eyes at him, at how his face looks almost as pale as he suspects his own looks. He just offers him a smile, but then realises there is probably blood on his teeth, so he blushes and looks down at the damp red cloth under his nose. Albus taps it with his wand again and it is clean.

To stop a nose bleed, a clot must form in the blood to stop any more from flowing out. The clot usually forms above the nostrils, or so he's been told. So, Scorpius pinches his nose there, cringing as the strings of wet blood fall down into his hand and pools in the crevices of his palm.

'It's very bright.' Albus observes. 'Your blood.'

'Is that a good thing?' His eyes water, his temples begin to throb, or at least he begins to notice they are throbbing, they throb with the beat of his heart, with every drip of his fucking nose.

'Take him to the infirmary. I'm sick of hearing him spit, it's disgusting!' Yann yells from across the room, his back still toward them.

Scorpius' watery eyes try to look scornful. He spits louder. Yann groans. Albus rolls his eyes, he says, 'Do you want to go?'

'To the infirmary? No.'

'Just get him out of _here_, it's disgusting, I can hear the blood dripping!'

Albus ignores him, 'Are you certain?'

He shrugs and the motion causes him to close his eyes and sway forward, then back, then forwa- 'I'm okay, okay, okay?'

'Are you?' His shoulders are held in his warm hands, it's so nice against his cold skin, so nice, he groans.

'Yeah, yeah, just give me a moment.' Sways sways, he spits, blood runs into his mouth, down his throat, making him yak and cough even more odious bright red blood into his hand.

Even over his coughing he hears Yann's tone, 'Fuck me, so – 'Yann stands and watches them a moment, 'fucking weird!' He says, more to himself, for Scorpius can barely hear, then he leaves.

' – his problem?' Scorpius sighs.

Albus says, 'It doesn't matter.'

'I feel like I've lost a few pints of blood right now. Fucking Ravenclaw.' Scorpius opens one eye, he smirks, runs his tongue over bloody teeth, 'I could do with a few pints too.'

The blood stops half an hour later. Well, it stops streaming at least, it drips, drops into a bucket which Albus has transfigured from his bedside lampshade. Scorpius cringes each time they hear it splash against the metal, so Albus transfigures it from tin to plastic.

He daren't sit back for fear of the blood trickling like a stream of hot sickly iron down his throat. So his spine is achingly straight, as he's leaning over the bucket attempting to stop himself from keeling over, slamming head first into the floor.

When it's time for their evening meal he tells Albus, who sits on his own bed beside him, reading another muggle story, that he's okay, it'll stop, that he should go and eat with everyone else. Yann and Favrotti return to their room, but briefly, and when Albus is handing him more wet towels to soak the blood, they both look at them and snigger, but Scorpius just flips them off and says, go with them, go with them. But Albus shakes his head, and doesn't. He stays, reading something called Paradise Lost. Scorpius doesn't ask him again, even when the window for food closes, and everyone comes back to sleep, Albus still hands him towels and empties the bucket with a flick of his wand so quick Scorpius barely notices.

It reaches two o'clock in the morning before Scorpius deems it safe to move the bucket away and lay back into his pillows. He looks over, and Albus is awake, still reading his Paradise Lost, he must notice his staring because those green eyes flick to him and he asks, 'Need anything?'

Scorpius says no, he doesn't, not now. Then he gathers all the air he can into his lungs and lets it out slowly. Albus goes to brush his teeth and when he comes back, Scorpius stands up, and stops him from climbing into bed with a hand on his big broad chest. His whole-body heats from the contact and he almost pulls away, frightened, no, terrified that it'll show on his face.

Before he can, Albus rubs his thumb down his nose and Scorpius stops breathing. He goes slowly, from the glabella to the tip, right. Down. the middle.

'Do you have them often?' He asks.

His thumb goes away. Scorpius watches it hanging there, from his hand, big brown and innocent. But if it is so innocent, why did it burn?

He shakes his head. 'No, never, really.'

'Looked bad.'

Scorpius shrugs, his mind so far away from the conversation. 'At least I'll sleep well tonight, it's tired me out.'

Albus nods his head, 'Yes, of course, sleep well.' He says, moving passed Scorpius into his own bed. Scorpius stares at the floor, trying not to watch Albus, who runs his hands through his mane of brown curly hair. He bites his lips, and fists his hands, counts to twenty and lets himself breathe, breathe, breathe before getting into his own bed.

He turns away towards the window, which is covered by thick green drapes. He wishes that they weren't there, and that he could look up at the night sky, which was so wonderfully open in this part of the world. The stars were not hidden behind the smog of human life, the air is clear, it exposes everything.

Maybe if he could see the stars he could talk to his Mother. Like he used to back home, or at Durmstrang, he could ask her if she'd ever had a nosebleed like he had, so long and disgusting. He could ask her, like he always did, how she's doing, how's wherever she might be, treating her. Is she happy? Is there life beyond death?

Though tonight he asks none of those things. And not only because he can't see the sky. But because there are so many other things metastasising in his brain. Questions he's never asked himself before, never mind his dead Mum. Questions such as, what is this? What am I f_eeling? _Am I shaking or just cold? My hand is tingling Mum, why is my nose still red?


	3. Chapter 3

**_(30_****_th_****_ October) _**

He tries to keep up with Albus' long legs but finds himself a metre behind him anyway. The corridors are so full of so many people that he has to use his elbows to get passed. This is not helped by his bag which has doubled in weight with the addition of all his new books from the library, it bangs against his knees and a select few who lean in with their breakfast breath and hiss in his ear. He shakes his head, bats them away and runs a little to fall back beside him.

He's breathing so loudly as they sit down. 'I don't – oh my – your – and I'm not – '

'Are you okay?' Albus' eyes are so green and so wide. Scorpius stares at them as his lungs calm down.

He shakes his head, nods it, making no sense, he knows, he sits down, lays his head on the cool soft over-used wooden desk. Closes his eyes.

Then Albus touches the place between his shoulder blades, and he opens them. 'What happened?'

Leaning back into that hand carefully, he says, 'Just tired, so many people, and you walk like – a metre a step.'

Albus frowns, 'I – what?'

But Scorpius has no time to answer, Macmillan comes in, surrounded by friends, he watches them, sniggers and the group start laughing. Scorpius rolls his eyes and sits up. Albus' hand falls away.

* * *

There were three societies available at Durmstrang, Hogwarts has a list of ten.

Scorpius signs his name in green ink under each of them.

'What do you think he's trying to prove?' Rose Weasley, her whisper deliberately loud in a boy named Lorcan Scamanders ear.

'Just trying new things.' Scorpius grins at her, then at Lorcan, whose face contorts into disgust, but Scorpius ignores him, still smiling, 'Are you two – '

'- I've been part of the Duelling Club since first year, Lorcan's Vice President of Chess and Arithmancy.'

'Great, I'll see you both – '

She snorts, 'Presidents have precedence over who gets accepted, _Malfoy_, and I doubt any will accept someone like you.'

Even though he knows what she means, he says, in a voice, ever so innocent, 'Like me?'

She steps forward, her big bouffant red hair blocks Lorcan's demeaning eyes, Scorpius does not move, 'Yes, like _you. _Who wants to be associated with devil spawn?'

He rolls his eyes, entirely _bored _with the fucking ridiculous presumption, 'Good one – '

Lorcan grunts, '- your fucked up little cousin seems to – '

'- what judge is _he _of character, never had a friend in his life.'

Scorpius stops smiling, 'Hey, I suggest – '

'Suggest what, fuckwit?' Lorcan moves Rose out of the way, he bites his tiny bottom lip with yellow teeth, his blue eyes cold and full of disdain. 'Hmmm – want me to break your nose too?'

He pauses, 'Obviously not.'

Lorcan's palm smacks the green quill from his hand, it splits down the middle, green ink pools around their feet. Scorpius just watches it grow.

'Is he going to cry?' Rose chuckles maliciously, 'Oh my god Lorcan, he's going to – '

He doesn't cry, but his face feels tight against his bones, his hands ache with tension of his fists, but he just walks away. They laugh at his back, but he just walks away.

* * *

He finds Albus in the library, who sits, rigid, as usual, a book in his lap, as usual. Scorpius sits across from him.

'Al?'

He doesn't look up, but his dark eyebrows draw closer together, as if he's just finishing a sentence, or got to an intriguing bit and doesn't want to be interrupted. Scorpius feels the edges of his lips curve and he waits a moment, until the little crease has gone and tries again.

'Hey, Albus?'

His eyes flick up, they are red, purple smudges under them signify his lack of sleep the night before. 'Hello, something funny?'

He shakes his head. 'No, can I ask you something?'

Albus puts the book on the table. Its thick spine is peppered with fracture lines, Tess of the D'Ubervilles. He looks at Scorpius, nods his head.

'Would you, at all, know where I could get some freaking alcohol in this place?'

The air is crisp and sharp, it would sting if it didn't feel so good. Scorpius swings back two gulps of Firewhiskey before sitting down. He transfigures his long scarf into a green bean bag, Albus does the same and they sit across from each-other in the astronomy tower over-looking but not seeing the Hogwarts grounds, for it is dark and the clouds in the sky are heavy with rain and covering any light the moon might give them. So the candles surrounding them are their only source of light.

Scorpius takes another gulp and it _burns, _he coughs, splutters, chokes on the vile tang because despite what he'd like to think, the taste really is fucking awful despite the beautiful effect it gives, he takes a deep breath but takes another. Three gulps later, peaceful silence later, he feels the world smudge around him, just a little, he feels lighter. ahhh that beeeeeautiful effect.

'Are you drinking?' He looks at Albus, then realises the haziness surrounding his friend isn't the alcohol. 'Ooooh, can I have one?'

He cuts his thumb against the lighter as he holds it to the end of his cigarette, muggle cigarette! He turns to Albus, cigarette dangling from his lips, 'Would you mind?'

Their noses almost touch because he moves so close, and so suddenly. Scorpius doesn't – can't - breathe.

'Inhale.' Albus says from somewhere in the distance but it's only muffled by his own cigarette, 'Inhale it.'

'Try again.' It lights, he inhales. He coughs up a lung. 'Fucking hell – ' but then his tight face relaxes, he slouches against the bean bag, the smudging of the world around him grows, he feels so light he could fly, but he never was all that great on a broom.

'Want to play a game?' He doesn't know why he thinks it, says it, his mind is a haze, he has no filter.

'A game?'

'You never answer, yes, no - 'his red, wet lips are numb around the bottle, 'do you?'

'Okay.'

'Okay, okay, okay, Albus Potter,' he laughs, 'Which do you prefer….Red or Green?'

'Green.'

'Owl or Cat?'

'Erm, Owl...'

'Fiction or non-fiction.'

He blows smoke into the air, 'Both.'

'Me too – Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw – '

'I wouldn't know.'

'Mmm, fair enough – 'the smoke feels less foreign in his lungs, almost, pleasant, 'Night or day?'

'Night.'

'I almost feel like there should be an 'obviously' – '

Albus rolls his eyes.

Scorpius doesn't register his drinking; he just gulps it down after each burning subsides. Around him the night gets darker, so much darker, but his mind and himself grows so light, so care-free, that he can't stop smiling, he smiles so much it must look weird, especially to Albus who Scorpius hasn't seen smile in – all the months or weeks he's known him. Maybe with the alcohol in his blood Albus would smile. But that thought makes him sombre somehow, sad, because someone shouldn't need a depressant like whiskey to do something as easy as smile.

Now, that thought makes him think of his father, who nurses age-old famous expensive whiskey on bad days until he falls asleep on the settee, knocking the bottle over and soaking his Mum's cream carpet. His Mum, he allows himself to think of his mother and all of that pain, but only fleetingly, because then he washes her face away with whiskey and he thinks of his heart and how radically it is beating.

'My hearts beating really fast.' He slurs, and touches his chest, 'Holy fuck.'

'Your thumb is still bleeding.' He feels Albus grab it, curling his own huge hand around his, and Scorpius shivers. He uses his wand to do – something – but Scorpius just focuses on the contact, then it is gone. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

'My mother would never approve of this,' he says, because it's easier to talk about her than think about her, 'she never even allowed a sip of wine at Christmas.' He sticks his tongue in the bottle, smiles when it tumbles down his throat.

'Oh?'

'Mm, not that she was strict, I think she placated my father pretty fucking vigorously, she was definitely a peace keeper,' he hums with the memories, 'perhaps that's why I am entirely un-Malfoy.'

'Indeed.'

Scorpius squeezes his fingers around the rim of the bottle, his eyes trained on the small opening. 'She persisted that I never even attend Durmstrang,' he mentions with mirth, 'but Grandfather insisted, in that way of his, that I go, he thought it might make me stronger – 'he pauses, 'might make me _understand _our world the way he did, I think he expected me to go there, accept their idiotic fucking spiel and come back to say, oh thank you grandfather, I get it now, we are superior. Our money and our name quite _obviously_ mean that we are a ruling class, that our opinions have place in this ever-changing world. Your ideas are entirely _understandable, _grandfather! A muggle studies teacher entirely deserves to be consumed by a mother-fucking _snake _grandfather! I will not only except this now, but play an active role in its happening.'

His face is carmine with exertion. His head full of wool. He doesn't even know what he's said, but he knows he feels good having said it, and having said it to Albus. But then there is silence. And Scorpius looks over, Albus is considering the blobs where stars should probably be in the sky, cigarette between his teeth. His dark hair is curling in the wind, it is so dark and the curls fold against his tanned neck, against his smooth freckled forehead. Scorpius almost reaches out -

'Your father – 'Albus says after too long, 'he had no say in it?'

Scorpius still watches him, watch the sky but he draws his hand back, he says, 'He just agreed with his father, that's how it works in my family.'

Another cigarette, another small sip, 'But you're here now…' Another sip.

He bites his lips, they are sooo numb, he bites harder, 'My mother died, my father felt remorseful, or he missed me, or something.' He pauses. They drink. 'She was ill for a long time, my father never told me, not until the end when he had no choice. I got home three days before she died.' The bottle is more than half empty. 'I think him sending me here is his way of mending the bridges, you know?' Scorpius turns his beanbag fully towards Albus, and stretches his legs out. His black trainers tap against the floor, 'a way of saying, look you have what you want now please forgive me.' His throat starts to itch and he knows he's going to cry, 'He never told me she was ill to protect me, I think it was to protect him, his pride, his family name, a _Malfoy _can't be fucking _weak, _how inane! How _embarrassing!' _Voice breaking on the last word, Scorpius looks away. Then sticks the heel of his hands into his eyes and furiously rubs the tears away. 'Fucks sake...' he whispers to himself, because they just won't stop! 'Sorry – fucking – 'Scorpius sniffs, 'Shit – I always fucking _cry!' _

Albus pretends not to watch but curiosity wins out and he wonders what it would be like to be a man who cried, to let all his emotions stream down his face. Scorpius rubs at his face but Albus feels like telling him not too, because it's good to let it out, it's refreshing to see someone be emotional and not to hide it.

Albus just nods his head, because he doesn't mind, not at all.

They remain in comfortable silence.

Scorpius eventually falls asleep, head lolled against the beanbag. Damp cheeks sticking to the fabric. His hair is a mass of white, shocking almost in the darkness. The air has made it curl somehow, patches of flicks and curves layer his head. The moonlight makes him look almost paler, almost translucent. The dark clothes he forever adorns does not take away from the striking skin tone, more adds to it.

Albus finds himself watching him, all over, every ridge and hair on his head Albus captures and inspects, his eyes just wander and take their time, because he's never seen anything so – and he's never had -

But then the cold bites against his cheeks, bringing to his attention just how red he is.

**_ (7_****_th_****_ November) _**

He'd bought them a month before, not really thinking but hoping he would like it. He'd wanted to give it to him in the library, because he felt that was a nice place to do it. But he'd thought too much about it and now his plans were stunted by his unable body.

'Are you coming to breakfast?' Albus asks it after everyone has left. His face directly in the sunlight but Scorpius doesn't know if he realises. It makes his dark hair look light brown and the freckles all over his face stand out.

'Give me a minute.' He shuffles around in his sheets, but not really trying to go anywhere.

'Are you doing okay?'

Scorpius nods, hoping he won't notice the sweat he is caked in. He nods his head again, in a gesture he hopes comes across as to say to leave him well alone.

But alas, the relentless Albus just says, 'Your sheets are wet.' And he makes his way around the bed, those big hands pull the covers off him.

'Hey, shit, stop it.' Scorpius shoves his hands away and tugs the quilt back. 'What are you doing?' Because he can't have his only friend see him like this. Not him, not Albus. 'Can you please just fucking - go?'

Albus looms over him, 'You can get a shower, I can sort this – '

'I'm fully capable – '

'You're shivering.'

He hadn't noticed, 'I'm fine -'

'You keep saying that – '

'Yes, I know, it's bloody true, leave me alone.'

'Something is clearly wrong –'

'You're fucking annoying – '

Albus frowns, 'No one's ever called me that before.'

Scorpius smiles despite himself and he allows the tension to leave his body. But then he shivers, hard, and it aches. 'I'll sort this out, it's okay, I'm sorry, ah shit, you're not, I know you're – 'he looks up at him looking down, 'sorry.'

Albus shakes his head and slowly peels the covers of off him. Scorpius lets him because his body isn't up to another protest. He just sits there, frozen, shivering, damp, aching. The quilt hits the door and shocks him, his heart beating too fast, it pains him so he leans back against the headboard.

'Albus Potter?' He says through chattering teeth.

'You need to wash.'

'Happy Birthday.'

And to that he says, 'You might have pneumonia.'

Scorpius knows only vaguely what that is, but in this moment, despite Albus' unblinking eyes, he doesn't really care. He aches too much, in too many ways to care about his what he meant. And it's his Birthday and he shouldn't be helping a sweaty fool like him. Scorpius' equally sweaty fingers presses against the paper of the three packages on his night stand.

'I said, Happy Birthday, please go, and take them.'

Albus' eyes don't move from his face. 'Can you stand?'

He grunts but ignores his friends own ignorance and decides that standing? no he probably can't, but he tries anyway. On shaking arms, he sits up, then bites out, 'Fuck, of course I can, please, it's okay, you can go.'

But Albus doesn't seem to acknowledge he's even spoken, he just leans over the bed, and hooks his arms under Scorpius' armpits and lifts him up, then settles him on the floor. But it's too quick, he isn't ready and Scorpius isn't strong enough to hold himself upright so he just flops forward into his big hard chest, right in the middle. Albus catches him, still saying nothing, his green eyes unreadable as he peels Scorpius' damp face from between his hard muscles, Scorpius doesn't look at him, too embarrassed but so glad he's already hot. Then one thick brown arm comes around his back and Scorpius feel's himself being drawn in, so he's right in the crevice, and merlin -

Albus brings his face too close, Scorpius can't breathe without tasting him. 'Can you walk, is this okay, can you move?'

He just nods, not trusting his tongue. Albus moves first and he pulls Scorpius with him, who just leans heavily against his side, because his heart is going to explode through his over-heated pores and spill his too bright blood onto their feet. He can feel it, and god does it ache.

They make it, unsteadily to the bathroom and the frozen porcelain of the toilet makes him groan as Albus sets him down with his big warm careful hands. 'Can you – are you able – 'Albus tugs at his shirt, searching his tired eyes. 'Scorpius?'

'Yes, I'm just tired, only real fucking tired, Al.' He murmurs and because he's so hot, thinks nothing of it and peels his t-shirt off, his eyes closing in the bright light of the room. He leans his naked back against the cold, freezing beautiful toilet. Then he shivers, but he's on fire!

The shower turns on, and it wakes him up a little, to his surroundings at least. He realises he's semi-naked and he realises he is not on fire, he is frozen solid.

'Can you stand?'

'I can stand.'

His arms still shake, his legs tremble, but he manages to reach the shower with Albus' hands on his shoulders.

'Okay?' Albus opens the door.

Scorpius blinks, 'Okay.'

He manages to peel off his pyjama bottoms and sit down in the shower to wash himself. When finished, he peeps out of the door to make sure everyone is gone before he crawls out on his hands and knees and flops onto his bed. He lies there, naked, frozen, wanting only, to thaw out and melt into the fresh new sheets.

Fresh new sheets.

He sighs.

The presents are gone from his night stand.

* * *

The wood of the desk in Muggle Studies makes for an almost comfortable place to nap. But then Lorcan Scamander shoves his back and hisses in his ear, 'Not fucking flirting with the Professor, today _Riddle?_'

He turns around and tries to flip him off but he hears Albus say something which shuts Lorcan up anyway. Then he says something to him too, but Scorpius is already half asleep, head lolling against the desk, and he hears nothing more.

* * *

Care of Magical Creatures. A subject he was most excited about. He loves animals. Of every kind. The beautiful, soft, cute ones, like baby dragons and cats, as well as the sharp, coarse, severer types, like Erumpent's and Bowtruckle's. He'd wanted a farm back home, but his Grandfather had only laughed.

On his desk is the most recent assignment. A four-page report on the advantages and disadvantages of keeping Dragon's as domestic pets. He's thought about keeping one (or ten) himself, so it'd been fun.

'P?' He whispers to himself. Not quite understanding the grading.

Hamish Brewster, beside him, has EE. He frowns. 'Hamish,' he wonders, 'what do the letters mean?'

Brewster, who is thick and tall, with a circle of bald at the back of his head, but with lovely blue eyes, turns to look at him, 'You say something?'

'Yes, me, sorry, I was wondering what the letters meant on the papers?'

Hamish leans over and laughs out right at seeing his mark. 'Holy – Forrester, check this – ' He nudges his friend behind him, tells him to check out Scorpius' paper, but the boy can't see so before he can do anything Hamish picks it up and throws it back to his friend. Scorpius scowls, he doesn't understand? Is it that bad? It is that good? Though, they are laughing, so he doubts it's good.

Rubeus Hagrid walks in. He bellows at them to calm down, but Hamish shouts as soon as he can, 'Scores are in eh, Professor, what did the Malfoy write, a food diary?'

What? He doesn't understand what he means. Hamish finally throws the paper back down in front of him. The boy sniggers, 'Should be PP for Piss-poor.'

'I don't get it.' Scorpius replies.

'Obviously.' Says Hamish.

'Countless errors, no structure and the idea that there should be cross-breeding of select species is barbaric.'

His nails scratch against the P. 'Really? Why do you think so? It has been proven that the select alleles which are dangerous in some Peruvian Vipertooth's can be eradicated through the introduction of certain dominant alleles which are found within common breeds of Antipodean Opaleye. Peruvian Vipertooth's are rare, because many are born with fatal genetic defects, if they cross-breed then this may stop happening.'

Hagrid wafts his hand, as if shooing his theory away. 'Yes, yes, I heard it all in your diabolical essay. There is no proof to this, and we leave genetic meddling up to the muggles.' He said it with no disdain for what he said, but who he said it too. As if Scorpius was worth none of the time he was spending talking to him. The realisation makes his feel so small, so hollow inside, that he doesn't try to argue any further, he doesn't pick up his essay as he leaves.

* * *

'Did I say Happy Birthday today, Albus?'

'You did.'

It is not even six o'clock, but Scorpius is in bed, in his new sheets, and Albus too, in his own bed, but he is reading.

'Well, Happy Birthday again, you can legally drink now.'

He pauses with a finger on his page and looks over at Scorpius, who is turned towards him, he hasn't moved in the hour they have been here, everything hurts and he somehow bruised himself all over in the shower. The red and purple grapefruit bruises make his veins pulsate.

'Yes,' says Albus, 'thank you for the books.'

Scorpius grins, dimples and all, 'You already said, a thousand times, but again, that's okay, though to be honest I thought they wouldn't be your style.'

'My style? Why not?'

He bites his lip so hard it bursts, but he licks the blood before it trickles down his chin and Albus notices and does something inane like, hand him another wet towel, he smirks at himself and says, 'Because they're happy.'

Albus rolls his eyes and turns back, 'Sleep now, good night.'

Scorpius throws a sock at him. 'I've only ever seen you read the dark stuff. Dante, Paradise Lost, Tess of the Duh-Der-Derrs.'

'D'Ubervilles,' he smirks, 'and some parts are happy.'

'Are they?' Scorpius says, 'Is something happy if it ends badly anyway?'

That makes him pause, but Scorpius just wants to make him smile again, so he leans over, and whispers, 'I got a P on an essay today.'

Albus doesn't smile, he scowls and puts his book away. Then turns fully towards him. Scorpius grins, because he's all there, looking at him, green eyes so so lovely, his face, those freckles, that hair, he sighs, so so lovely.

'Scorpius?'

'Albus?'

'You were saying something about a P, on your essay, which one?'

They'd worked through it together in the library. Even though he didn't take Care of Magical Creatures Albus had insisted on going through it with him. They'd discussed the cross-breeding extensively, they'd discussed it all at length. A part of him didn't want to tell him which one, because maybe he was letting his friend down too. But they didn't lie.

'Care of Magical Creatures,' he says finally, sighing, 'Professor Hagrid totally shit on the cross-breeding example.'

He grunts, 'Seriously? Even though you mentioned the genetic advantages and how maybe the dangerous breeds could be more docile in the presence of human contact?'

'I know, I thought they were good points too.'

'They a_re _– and Hagrid can't have any qualms with cross-breeding, he's a cross-breed.'

'That sounded a bit offensive there, Al.'

'It wasn't offensive, just true.'

Scorpius nods, 'What is a P, anyway, I asked Hamish but he – didn't say.'

He looks almost as if he might lie to him and tell him P meant Perfect or something like that, but he didn't. 'Poor.'

'I thought as much.' He doesn't want to turn away, or close his eyes, or stop talking to him when he's talking so much. But his body feels so heavy. Like there are weights clinging to each of his limbs, dragging him down. He tries to blink it away, but his eyes just slowly close further. He takes a deep breath, 'I'll try and speak with Hagrid again, see if I can change something or re-do the essay, I'll have the time.'

'Yeah, Scorp, okay.'

**_ (10_****_th_****_ November) _**

He misses all his morning lessons, sleeping right the way through until three. A nose bleed wakes him up. It pools at his neck and he sit's up suddenly. 'Ah – shit!' The more he tries to rub his nose the more it bleeds, it bleeds and bleeds through his fingers, onto his legs.

'Fuck – Malfoy – what happened?' Yann Fredericks stands at the bathroom door, 'That's disgusting!' He grimaces, and turns back into the bathroom and comes back and throws him a towel. 'Wipe it up – why are you always bleeding?'

He can feel it dribble from his nose and he focuses on that sensation because his head is too light to do anything else and he knows, he knows, that if he tries to move he will surely faint. He's never fainted before Hogwarts, he's never really had a cold before either, but since the night on the balcony he can't seem to shake it.

Yann leans against the bathroom door, his short brown hair almost cropped to the skull nearly reflects the sunlight streaming through the open windows. It hurts his eyes and he looks away.

'Malfoy – can you even hear me?' Yann is shouting, 'Are you ill?'

Scorpius squints back at him, 'Just a cold.'

'- your nose has been bleeding – '

'Thanks, just a cold though – '

'Whatever, man – do you need Ma– '

'No, thanks, no Madam Pomfrey – '

He just didn't want to move, not even a fraction more than he had too, blinking ached. But his body wouldn't stop coughing, or sneezing, or bleeding.

Lily corners him at lunch. She sits beside him at the Slytherin table and glares.

'What did I tell you about that Scorpius person, Albus.'

'What do you mean?'

Her red painted fingers shove his plate away, she leans closer, 'He's Voldemort's son, Albus. Don't you understand that?' Her eyes are big with worry, like she believes everything she's saying, 'That's why he wasn't here to start with, he went to Drumstrang to learn the dark arts before coming here to use them.'

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. 'I've seen it, he's extremely dangerous.'

A gasp. He knew she would. The people around them look over, he stares back until they look away. Lily puts a hand on his shoulder, 'What've you seen, Al? What's he done to you?'

'Nothing, Lily,' he moves her hands, 'Stop believing it, it's not true.'

'Because he says so?' She folds her arms, 'Like _that's _a reliable source.'

A part of him realises that she's only saying these things because everyone else is. That she's his sister and he loves her, she's young and is probably hearing all of this from her friends, but it angers him still. Though, for her, it doesn't show. 'It's just talk, Lily, don't listen to it, don't your friends have anything else to talk about?'

'Who said my friends said anything?' She stands up, '_Everyone's _talking about him. How can they not after what he is, Professor Rigg – she does 5th year Muggle Studies – caught him stealing so many Muggle books from the restricted section that she had to put a sanction on how many we can all take out now, she told us all to be cautious after that.'

The books weren't from the restricted section, just the Muggle studies section, they'd read them together, they were science books. His sister just frowns at him, he looks away, 'Don't believe everything you hear, Lily.'

'Don't believe everything you hear either, Albus. You don't know him.'

**_(14_****_th_****_ November) _**

Scorpius picks up his diary. The pages are old, yellow and withered, like they've been dunked in day old tea. But he smiles as he thumbs through them, admiring his handwriting, his awful swirled writing, reading the versus and remembering.

He chooses purple because it is one of his favourites.

He hasn't written in it for two years.

…he writes,

_I don't think life has ever been so good. _

_But I don't think my body has ever felt so bad._

Albus walks into the room, his dark hair tucked behind his ears. Scorpius watches him and despite the sickness, he grins.

'How are – '

'Want to read my diary?' He interrupts, and Albus' lips curl as he bites the lower, in confusion? He's so hard to read. 'Come on,' Scorpius pats the space beside him and moves over, 'it's fucking funny.'

'Are you sure – '

Scorpius smiles again, 'I wouldn't have asked – '

'Okay.'

'Some of it is a little embarrassing – 'Scorpius flicks through the pages, trying to ignore the hot hot hot arm against his, '– but nothing too shocking, I think I mostly ranted about Durmstrang.'

'There's a list – 'Albus' finger pauses on a page, 'What does – '

Scorpius sighs, he places the book into Albus lap. 'I don't know where it comes from, Shakespeare perhaps.' He shrugs solemnly, 'But I think that's my bucket list.'

'Your, what?' He has thick dark brows which pinch together in confusion. Scorpius looks at them, smiles, then nods toward his diary.

'Bucket list, an amalgamation of all the things I wish to achieve before I die.'

Albus' hands tense on the page, 'Why would you want to – '

'For posterity, for fun, for purpose,' he grins, 'who knows, I was young – what did I want to achieve?'

_Scorpius Malfoy – the bucket list: _

_[in no particular order] _

'This feels intrusive.' Albus frowns.

'What? No, shut up, I'm right here, telling you to read it.'

'If you're sure.'

Scorpius rolls his eyes and nudges him, 'of course.'

_fly a broom – well _

_write a poem _

_watch a muggle television_

_watch a muggle film_

_write a novel_

_drink alcohol until I am sick _

_fly on a muggle aeroplane _

_get a tattoo _

_find a friend _

_shave my hair _

_give and receive a meaningful hug _

_hold someone's hand _

_hold them_

_kiss them _

_find someone _

_find myself _

'Should I add to the list?'

'If you want.'

Scorpius sits up slowly but Albus is already up and retrieves his assortment of pens from his bag. When he gets back, he shuffles up and Scorpius, he falls heavily against Albus and thinks nothing of it and of almost nothing else. He clears his throat three times and doesn't look up at Albus, he just keeps his voice normal and calm,

'What should I put?'

'Anything.'

'Mmm.'

But he doesn't write anything, Scorpius begins putting a line through the ones he's already completed. And only two months in!

He pauses over one, 'Was I sick on the balcony?'

'That was your first-time drinking alcohol?'

A beat. 'Yes, I told you that,' he laughs, 'shit, don't sound so shocked, was I sick, yes, no?'

'Not that I recall.'

'Okay, damn.'

Scorpius chews on the tip of his purple quill contemplatively. He feels his friend pull away, so they aren't touching anywhere anymore. It makes him so cold, he looks across at him, seeing his face in profile, he's glaring at the diary, Scorpius leans further away himself.

'You're my friend, right?'

Albus nods.

Scorpius crosses out _find a friend _and puts _Albus Potter _beside it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Trigger Warning; illness_

* * *

**_(20_****_th_****_ November)_**

He sits on his bed and stares at the off-white paper, tarnished at the edges and crinkled in the middle. A sketch book he'd kept away from himself for so long. He doesn't look inside, not wanting to see how his younger self felt. He hadn't put pen to this paper in years, had rarely even thought about it. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that he has taken it from under his bed, how it was on his knee, his finger skimming over the cover, how he almost felt okay in having it there. Like the significance of it had dwindled somehow, like it didn't matter so much anymore, he wasn't as terrified of it anymore.

'What're you doing here?'

'Nothing.' He had presumed Scorpius was busy sleeping.

But no, Scorpius turns over, looking at Albus, his voice low, 'You don't have to stay here. '

Albus doesn't meet his eyes. His nails instead carve their shape into the black of his sketch pad. He knew not what to reply. His mind was always so full of so much that he couldn't grasp onto the appropriate words, therefore what came out usually, was nothing at all. But, just as the past months had been, Scorpius made up for his silence.

'I've always wanted to write a novel.' His words are hard, like his throat was dry. Albus brings him a glass of water.

'Have you?' He replies. But he knows the answer, it had been on his list.

He takes a gulp, coughs and wipes his mouth. 'Since I was a kid.'

'Did you ever finish anything?'

'I wrote so much, about fuck all and everything and all the shit in-between.' He laughs, he coughs, sneezes, wipes his nose and cringes. 'Sorry – I – ' his heads falls onto his pillows.

Albus shakes his head, 'Don't say that.' He gets him some more water and puts his sketch pad away, then says, 'You missed Muggle Studies again.'

'Well, I haven't been doing much of anything recently.'

And they look at each-other momentarily, but it was long enough to become just plain staring. Albus daren't blink, to ruin the look on his friend's face would be – he can't blink, he won't let himself rid his own sight of the image before him because no one has ever looked at him so –

'Al – ' Scorpius whispers, and something in those sea foam eyes makes his stomach sway. He goes to stand and go over and – but then Scorpius sneezes and blood streams from his nose -

'Shit.' He does stand and approach him but instead of – he just bunches up the quilts and holds them under Scorpius nose. But it's too big, they're stifling him, so he doesn't think, just swiftly takes off his grey jumper and holds it under the stream. It turns dark grey, then purple, then black.

He can feel Scorpius' big eyes watching him, there are questions in his gaze, but there are so many answers too.

The door swings open, Yann walks in, quickly followed by Roman Feldman and Georgio Favrotti, two other room-mates.

'What the fuck is this?' Yann sniggers, pointing, 'does that dude ever stop pissing blood, it pours from his fucking pores man.' He slaps the chest of Favrotti who grins.

'Pours from his pores, sweet,' he's big and bulbous and boisterous, Favrotti. He lugs himself over to stand at the edge of Scorpius bed.

Albus scowls at them. 'What?' He grunts, 'want a picture?' quickly switching sides of the jumper to stop the flow, blood smears onto his fingers, but he doesn't notice.

'Nothing, Potter, calm your shit,' he raises his eyebrows at Scorpius, 'he fucking dying or something? He's practically blending into the sheets.'

'- and oh my – what's – his mouth, what's coming out of this – 'Yann turns away in disgust, holding his chest and gagging, he runs into the bathroom.

Albus slowly removes the jumper from under his friend's nose, keeping his palm under to attempt to steady the flow even a little. The blood collects in the crevices of his hand, but he isn't looking, isn't caring, for streams of too bright red are seeping from Scorpius lips.

'I'm gunna' be sick!' Favrotti carries his heavy bulk to the bathroom and slams the door as well.

'Could be from the nose bleed.' Roman stands at the other side of the bed. 'Could be just dripping down.'

Albus ignores him and leans close, 'I'm going to have a look.' Scorpius nods. Albus gently pulls down on the skin of his chin, blood is congealed over his gums. He moves his free hand up and pulls at his top lip. The gums are fat and red, swollen and seeping blood.

He bites back a gasp, and slowly closes his eyes to ease the panic, because he can't freak out, he doesn't freak out. When he opens his eyes, there are tears trailing down Scorpius' cheeks. He shakes his head at him, trying to tell him that no, don't worry, come on, don't cry, don't cry, but he's never been too good at comforting, so he just shakes his head and steadies the flow.

'He needs a Mediwitch, a Healer even – 'Roman's voice is unwelcome, and had been forgotten.

Albus' panic makes his voice louder, 'I know, I know that.'

'I can help you take him.'

Scorpius groans against his hand.

'Okay.'

Scorpius weakly shoves his hand away, and coughs, dotting blood onto the sheets, 'I don't need anyone, just some sleep.'

Roman's dark eyes watch him incredulously, 'Mate, there's blood everywhere – '

'I'm fine, I'm okay.'

'You haven't got out of bed is so many days – '

His hands bunch in the sheets. His eyes scrunch in agony. 'I'm - - it's – I'm just tired.'

'Is he done spewing blood?' Yann yells from the bathroom.

'Fuck you.' Scorpius groans. 'Fuck you!'

'Calm down, you're in pain, come on, we'll take you.' Roman's dark skin looks so foreign against Scorpius translucent paleness as he grips under his arm. 'Albus, Potter, come on.'

'Al, please – 'His nose is still running, the blood bubbles from his lips as he speaks. He stretches his long finger to stroke his face, but they stop and fall on to his shoulder. 'Please.'

But he just shakes his head. 'You need help.' He mutters, drawing back, turning the sodden jumper again and pressing it under his nose.

There is a pause.

Then something breaks, and Scorpius grips Albus' wrist and sobs into the jumper. He is shaking and coated in a film of sweat. They slip on his wrist, up, down. So, Scorpius grips tighter and it _bites _into his skin but Albus says nothing. He glares at Roman as if daring him to say something, anything, but he just nods, and backs away.

The door to the bathroom opens, 'Fucking hell, don't want to interrupt this romantic moment.' Favrotti sniggers, his dark eyes round and menacing.

'Just, fuck off, before – '

They both laugh. 'All right Potter, no need to get defensive, we'll leave you two – together.'

When they're alone Albus moves closer, placing his free hand on Scorpius' thin shoulders, they tremble underneath his palm so badly it almost shakes him off, so he grips.

'I need a little help, I think.'

Albus nods, his hand moves up and down, up and down his cold sweat damp arm and squeezes his shoulder, 'Okay.'

* * *

Albus carries him all the way to Madam Pomfrey through the desolate corridors of their school. She is entirely grey in hair and face as Scorpius is led on the bed bleeding from his mouth. 'My dear, my dear.' Her wand circles around his arm and numbers erupt from her wand in big bold angry red letters.

'What – '

'Not now Mister Potter – it's so very low.'

Albus fists are sweaty and bunched at his sides, 'What's low?'

She looks up at him, her lips tiny and pursed, 'It is of no matter – '

'I brought him here,' Albus feels his voice rising, 'he's my – what's low?'

'Blood pressure.' She shakes her head, 'Can you stay here, I need a Healer.'

She leaves. Albus stands holding Scorpius' head up to stop him choking on the blood in his mouth.

'What was low Al?' Scorpius' arms clutch at his stomach.

'Blood pressure.'

'Oh.'

Madam Pomfrey returns with a small bespectacled man with tufts of white hair spouting from his liver-spotted head.

'I'm Healer Madlin.' His wand wafts up and down Scorpius, up and down the length of him. 'You weigh 8 stone.' He looks at him skeptically, 'are you taking any substances which would be deemed, recreational?'

'No.' Scorpius breathes out.

'How long have you been having spontaneous bleeds?'

'A few weeks, months, I don't know.'

'Months?'

'I don't know.'

'Scorpius Malfoy,' Madlin frowns, 'you blood shows no Veela disposition.'

Suddenly, he yells, clutches his stomach and bends over his knees. Albus holds his shoulders. Madlin just scowls, Pomfrey hides her obvious concern behind a veil of indifference.

'You, you, have you noticed a difference in your friend's appetite recently, his energy levels, breathlessness, perhaps?' The man asks.

'Yes, and yes, yes.' Scorpius leans back, still groaning, but Albus catches his neck before he can lie down.

'And you thought it not a good idea to notify a member of the School staff?'

'I – '

'No time for that Henrik, no time.' Madam Pomfrey rubs at her eyes.

'Very well.' He turns down to Scorpius, 'You need to be transported to St Mungo's there are no facilities for you here.'

'What facilities does he need?' That was Albus.

Healer Madlin raises his eyes to him. Albus glares back, for the mere reason that he isn't speaking quick enough. 'It is no concern of yours.'

'I brought him in – '

'Are you family?'

Albus falters, his hand tries so hard to not grip the back of Scorpius' neck.

'What?' Scorpius gurgles onto his clothes. Madam Pomfrey sighs sorrowfully and transfigures some pillows into thick tissues, she hands them to Scorpius but he shakes his head not removing his arms from his abdomen, Albus takes them instead, wipes his face before holding it under his chin.

'Can't you make it stop, the bleeding?' Albus is sweating, he's seeing so much red.

Healer Madlin shakes his head, 'Not it this case.'

The red in his vision swells, swells, Scorpius face is so red, too red, so much -

'Albus,' Scorpius looks up at him. His fist has balled the tissues and blood is seeping through his fingers.

'Sorry,' He spreads out the tissue and wipes his chin again.

'Transport has been arranged.' Madlin coughs, 'It has arrived. We need to move.'

Then there is commotion. Albus clutches Scorpius too hard, and still he is dragged away. His hand stretches out, pale fingers with nails encrusted with dried blood, Albus catches them but he's moving too quick through a door he never knew existed. Then he is gone and Albus is alone.

Scorpius doesn't open his eyes. He notes his movement through the ever-changing smells. Grass, cold air, dirt, then – paint, cleaner, bleach, it's noxious, it makes him feel sick and his throat is scratchy as if he's already thrown up the contents of his empty stomach. Pain, pain in his stomach then his arm, then only in his arm, then none. It is black and beautiful, the darkness into which he sails.

His hazy mind conjures images of his mother who, with her big beautiful eyes stares down at him and smiles. He feels himself smiling too. She is speaking, telling him that it's all okay, but what's okay? He can't be sure, he doesn't know. There's no more pain in his stomach, but seeing her makes his heart ache. She touches his cheek, rubs something away, says it's okay to cry.

Too quickly she transpires into dust, her blue eyes transcend into green. And in this hidden space of his infinite mind embedded in the darkness of a place he never daren't venture before Scorpius finds himself face to face with Albus Potter. His face is blurry, everything is a mirage, but his eyes.

* * *

'Hi, Albus.'

'Hello, Lily.' He doesn't ask how she manages to get into the Slytherin boys dormitories. She always finds her ways somehow, that Lily.

'Are you leaving?'

'No.'

'Why are you packing then?' She jumps onto his bed.

He doesn't reply, just pulls open the draws and throws things into the suitcase.

'Albus? Don't ignore me, I'm your sister.'

That makes him sigh, he turns around for her, his sister, but his voice is dismal, because he can't change it to be anything other than how he feels, and he says, 'What is it, Lily?'

She hums and hars and swings her legs over the side of his bed, her shoes banging against the wood, her hands smoothing out her skirt, she doesn't look at him, 'I just wanted to see how you were, haven't seen you in so long. How are you?'

She's staring out of the open window, Albus turns back around and opens more draws, 'Do you need something?'

'No, I don't need anything. Is it a crime for a sister to see how her brother is doing?'

Albus knows how rude he's being, but his mind is a single track now, with a plan and one destination. 'I'm just busy Lily.'

Obviously, the wrong thing to say, she grunts like an animal and throws he arms into the air. 'I really just don't get you recently, Albus. I haven't even seen you in a month, I'm your sister.'

Does that mean something? He thinks momentarily as he fondles Scorpius' rainbow pens. Is a sister in greater hierarchy to the friend when the sister knows nothing of the brother, not nearly as much as the friend?

Genetics doesn't equal understanding, does it. It doesn't make two people automatically best friends. Families can be forged through no connection between blood; and blood connection does is not in direct correlation to acceptance, to something like love.

But she is his sister, she is young and here.

He drops the pens one by one into a rucksack. 'Something's happened and Scorpius is – I have to bring his things to him.' He tells her, because she deserves an explanation.

Lily scoffs. 'That Scorpius – ' she stands up, puts her hands on her hips, her eyes glaring at him. She spits, 'I can't believe you're still friends with him. Haven't you listened to anyone about him? _Everyone _is saying how obvious it is about his parentage.'

'I don't want to know – '

'Course you don't! He's drawn you in, with his weird hair and scary eyes! Think about it, Albus, someone like that has a thousand reasons to lure in someone like you.'

His diary is added to the top of the bag before he zips it up and throws it over his shoulder. 'Someone like me?' He wonders.

Lily stomps over to the door. Turns back and levels her eyes to his. 'Yes, Albus, you're a Potter, he's a Malfoy, or, at worst, a Riddle, are you really that oblivious?' She evil eyes him, flicks her hand dismissively his way and slams the door closed.

Albus thinks nothing more about it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Trigger Warning; illness. _

* * *

Scorpius is prescribed his own personal healer; his name is Healer Simms. He introduces himself as Simon, Simon Simms. Simple Simon, Simon Says. He laughs, he's had too much of whatever potion they gave him to kill the pain and so he laughs laughs laughs at Healer Simple Simon who saaaaays – way too much potion.

'Glad to see you in good spirits Mister Malfoy.'

He's all fidgety in the unusual bed, 'Did Albus come with me?'

'Who?'

He stops laughing, stops moving.

'Mister – Scorpius, you're not well, I won't lie to you. But before we proceed, you must know, your family has been informed of your situation.'

He doesn't know whether to say, 'They have?' or 'What situation?' he settles on the former.

'Yes, it is our policy, since you are under the age of eighteen your family must be informed of any situation regarding health, especially in such situations as yourself.' Simon is fiddling with a clipboard. He has grey hair, but purple robes give him an air of immaturity. His socks, Scorpius notes, have brooms on them.

'And what is my situation?' In his heart, he doesn't want to know, would rather not know. Everyone, including himself, had discussed it, at some point, at some party maybe, or with people he barely knew in the darkness, with words no-one dare utter when the sun was up. Would you want to know your fate, how you were going to die? Wouldn't you rather let it just happen one day, perhaps painless, an accident. A loose roof slate, a stray spell, a potions accident, he didn't know, he could never answer the question. But he'd asked it now, so there was his answer.

'You have a muggle condition – Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.'

He'd read about it, in a book he wasn't allowed to have. 'Leukaemia, _Cancer.' Cancer, _it's _cancer. _It couldn't be, no, not cancer. He couldn't be that unlucky. His mind was reeling, but he could think of nothing at all but his mother, his big bright beautiful mother in her own hospital bed with her own appointed healer looking at him and father solemnly, his drawn lips saying, I'm so sorry, it's cancer and it's too late, there's nothing we can do – nothing we can do – nothing – Holy shit. Holy shit.

'Holy shit.' He breathes, his tongue was going numb, his fingers too.

'I know this must be difficult. If you want, I can give you and your family some time.'

He feels nothing at all – was this difficult? It wasn't happening, not to him. Not this. Not again. Part of him wanted to just laugh! Because of course, of course. He just was that unlucky, when he was getting his life together big ugly cancer would disrupt it again, because the universe just loved watching him squirm.

The Healer watches him, and Scorpius has so much to ask but all he can think of are his mother's eyes, his mother's eyes that morph into green – then he aches – _cancer _

'Scorpius? Would you like me to bring your father in before we proceed?'

His father, no, not my father, he thinks, but he says; 'Proceed to what?'

'Then I'll inform of you of your treatment.'

'Treatment, can't I go home?'

'You are very sick, Scorpius, there is no going home – yet' he quickly adds, face going slightly red. 'Your father is in the waiting room, should I bring him in?'

No, no, no.

'If he wants.' Scorpius says with his eyes closed.

Draco Malfoy follows Simms from the waiting room and stands at the foot of Scorpius' bed. He is as rigid as stone, he is a marble version of himself, hard, cold and still.

Draco watches him, and Scorpius turns away. It is Simms who speaks.

'Okay.' He coughs, looks at his clipboard, 'Scorpius, do you know anything about Leukaemia?'

He shakes his head.

The Healer reads from his clipboard, 'Blood is matured in the bone marrow. In healthy individuals, the cells mature into healthy, good blood cells, but yours can't do that, they stop maturing as myoblasts, when their still big, fat and no good, these get released into your blood stream and because they aren't mature they are lazy and do no work to help you. They pour into your bloodstream and make it slow, they don't do their jobs, no healthy cells to fight infection or transport oxygen, don't stop you from bleeding. They do nothing but harm you and eventually they break your thin veins and scatter you in bruises. Your spleen is also affected, bunged up with so many blasts it swells and that with the hemorrhaging causes you pain.'

'But I feel so much better.' He tries to smile. His father is staring at the ceiling.

'We have given you what is called a transfusion, bags of donated blood, we've almost replaced everything.'

'Everything?'

'Almost.'

Scorpius shakes his head. Because this was – what was this?

Simms talks about treatment. About something called chemotherapy. About medicinal potions being pumped into his heart with names too big for him to ever remember. He doesn't listen, he stares at the blue curtain surrounding him, and tries to think of nothing at all. Especially his father who hasn't moved a muscle since seeing him, but Scorpius doesn't and can't expect him too, because here it is, another Malfoy, bed-ridden, cold, weak, before him, his own flesh and blood this time, his own child, his only child birthed from a wife who was sick too, no, he can't expect any movement from his father right now, he can barely move himself.

* * *

It is almost dark by the time Albus gets there.

'Hello.' He lays three bags of belongings on the floor. Scorpius is sat up and there is a slight colour to his cheeks that he doesn't remember seeing before. He is wearing a far too big blue hospital gown, 'Hi, Albus, did they tell you?' He says, eyes shining with something like tears, 'Did you see my dad?'

He tries to blink blink away the image but no, it's right in front of him and it isn't going away, so shakes his head dumbly. 'No, I just arrived.' Is this hell? When will he wake up?

'Okay, you can sit down you know.' He sniffs, then wipes his eyes, 'What is that? Did you bring my things?' Albus nods. Scorpius grins, all teeth, 'Thanks for that, I don't think I'll be needing my school robes though.'

'Oh, okay.'

'Please, can you sit down, Al.' He leans over and pats the chair. Albus turns it so that it is facing the bed and sits down.

'How are you?' He asks, again dumbly.

'Not doing so good Al, I've got cancer.'

Cancer. Thinks Albus, Can-cer. He's heard of that before. Perhaps a distant relative had had it, cancer, but he doesn't know what it was.

'Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.' Scorpius continues, 'That's the cancer I've got. My blood isn't working properly. It's not maturing right, it's just growing big and fat and out of control.'

Albus tries to keep his own voice steady, but the ringing in his ears doesn't allow him to hear it very well. He says something like, 'Your blood?'

And Scorpius nods, 'Yeah,' but then he smiles, though it isn't a happy one, 'got some bad blood in me Al. I've had to be pumped full of other people's blood to keep me going. My blood is like tar, like molasses through my veins, well, at least it was.'

'But it's okay now?' Albus' nails grind against the wooden arm rests, his teeth grind against each-other. He has to cling to something, a distraction. Otherwise he'll fall to his knees and scream into his hands, or he'll take Scorpius, take him and hold him and they'll both scream at the world that's spinning out of control.

Scorpius looks away, his fingers picking at his blanket, 'It'll turn into tar again unless they kill it with something called chemotherapy.' Albus' eyes widen a little, 'It's all very muggle, this thing. I don't think even magic has control over damaged blood, no matter how much we'd like to think it does.' Scorpius bites his lip but rolls his eyes, 'Chemotherapy. Apparently, my hair will fall out.'

'What?' Albus eyes scrunch up into slits.

'Yeah, it kills the bad stuff but some good stuff too, it's that fucking strong.'

He takes a breath, holds it in his lungs until feels dizzy and lets it out. Scratch scratch scratch his fingers make lines in the chair, 'There must be a spell – '

'I already asked, and gods knows my father did too. But there's nothing, no spell to stop my body from becoming a host to cancer. No spell anywhere to stop it from killing me, Al.'

Lead drops from his throat into his stomach. Albus holds back the sickness it causes, massages his chest but just ends up gripping it because fuck does it hurt. He pants pants pants out his breath, but it does no good to the pain and his heart which races in his ears. Scorpius watches him from his place on the bed. Looking down at him with bright grey eyes almost pleading with him not to lose it, but gods knows he just might, because how can this be happening?

Not to him, not to this man. This man who shines wherever he goes. With his glorious features and continuous laughter. Someone so bright, so kind, so honest, who would allow him to suffer? To put him here, to let him bleed from the inside out. No one deserved it, but especially not him. Never him.

'It's okay Albus, it won't kill me.' Scorpius says eventually, all steady and somehow composed, 'I won't let it and I don't think my family would ever let blood kill me off, not Dad, not my blood, not Malfoy blood!' He grins. Albus just stares, stares at him, at his only friend, his wonderful – friend, who has blood like tar and can still grin like the happiest man on earth. He feels that lead again deep set and heavy, slithering its way up his throat, it makes his eyes water, but he blinks before anything gives him away. 'Come on Al, I've been waiting for you all day, don't look like that.' He pauses, 'Did you bring a book?'

Albus nods. Lead drops to his stomach, where it settles, where it aches. Blink. Blink. Blink.

'Okay, please stop looking at me like that,' Scorpius is unrelenting with those smiles. 'Shall we read it, which book did you bring?'

'Dante.'

Scorpius snorts, 'Oh, Al, fucking Dante.'

**_(21_****_st_****_ November)_**

'Unauthorised use of the Floo Network.'

'I understand.' He didn't. But it was a useless argument. He _had_ done it.

'I just don't get why?'

He shrugs. It isn't his to tell, and he couldn't speak the words if he tried. The professor is unrelenting with her stare. Like if she keeps it up he'll tell her why he left. He won't though - so he just looks back at her.

Professor McGonagall. Someone who adores the floor his father walks on. He understands it. A lot happened between then before he was born, things he will never and could never comprehend. But she's with his father, and his father –

'You are cautioned, Albus Potter, your first strike of three, if you are to reach three, you will be suspended from Hogwarts for the remainder of the school year. Am I understood?'

'Yes.'

'And your parents will be informed.'

'Yes.'

'That is all.'

* * *

They are all in the room. Laying in their beds, they were talking, but stop when he comes in.

'Albus,' Roman stands up, 'is Scorpius back?'

His bed is unmade.

The sheets are wet from his sweat and there are spatters of blood all over it. He goes over and strips it. Throwing the sheets away like it's their fault he's not here anymore. There are marks on his duvet, big red splotches of dried blood which he cleans with a wet cloth. Sweat has soaked through to the mattress, he taps his wand against the big stain to get rid of it all. He curses himself for not realizing. How long had he been sleeping in sweaty sheets? Wasn't it wet, and cold? He shakes his head. He doesn't want to know, or to imagine.

Someone is speaking but he can't hear them, and he doesn't care anyway. New sheets are suddenly in his hands and he puts them on slowly. As if he's just realised this is Scorpius' bed and that it needs to be done properly. The edges aren't loose, he checks, then checks again, the cover isn't too big and thin at the top. The pillows, they are fresh and big and soft for him.

When he finishes, he pauses, and just stares at it. It's all pristine. Corners neat and pillow high. It never looks like this. So untouched and almost – clinical.

'Did something happen to him, Albus? Is he still in the infirmary?' the voice says, but he's not looking.

The bed is cold and empty and it's making him want to rip his skin from his bones. But he can't. At least, not here, where people can see.

Too crisp, too refined, too stale. They tear as he pulls them off the bed. The cover from the quilt, the pillow is stripped bare, all of it, he grabs at it, breaking the soft cotton, seam from seam, somehow the feathers fall from the quilts insides. They pour out, like soft snow down upon him.

There is so much noise. But he can't stop until it's all gone, all destroyed. Where he lay, ill and cold and damp. How could he not have noticed he was so sick? _Cancer. _Wasn't the pouring bright blood sign enough to take him to help? How he missed his lessons, he stopped reading, stopped eating.

Would he have eventually stopped talking? Stopped laughing? Smiling? Breathing?

People are shouting at him, they are in his face, how did they get in his face. It makes him back away, because they can't be so close to him right now, it they touch him, he'll hurt them, and he can't let that happen.

Until he feels the wood of the door, he walks backwards, unseeing at the faces so close to him. They don't reach out, thank god, but they are saying things he is sure aren't good. The door, he opens it, somehow, and turns around before running up the stairs and out of the dungeons.

Before he knows it, he's outside. Lead down under a shadow of low hanging trees beside the black lake. This usually helps. When he's off-kilter and the world is back to feasting on his soul. Though here, he finds no respite. His skin doesn't settle back, it still clings to him too tightly, and he won't stop shaking.

It almost feels as if the technicolor he was beginning to see again has been eradicated. Everything is dowsed back into the ugliest grey.

**_(25_****_th_****_ November) _**

The Floo networks are down. He doesn't know whether it's because of him or something else but there is no time to find out.

The secret passageways have all been shut, apart from the one leading to Hogsmeade. To the Hogshead. So, he takes that, silently, invisibly. His sister won't thank him for stealing from her.

No Ariana Dumbledore anymore. Just a gaping hole where her picture used to be. Aberforth died some years after the Battle, but the pub isn't empty. It's a shrine.

Because this is where it all started isn't it. Where Aberforth let his Aunt, his Uncle and his Father back into the school, to face the night that almost killed them. It stands now as a monument for all that happened, all that was lost and all that was gained. There is writing on every inch of the main dining room. The ceiling, the floors, the walls, the windows. Some are just names and dates, others are messages to the fighters. Of thanks, gratitude, love, hope, some document who was lost, some are drawings of them, or flowers, hearts, smiley faces, or lightening scars.

Flowers and candles litter the floor. Paying their respects to those who died. Photos of them, scattered amongst the buds of roses and lilies and lavender. He pauses, he can't not, it's so much to take in. To be here, surrounded by the memories he's lived in the shadows of.

Only for a moment, does he stay, because there's somewhere he needs to be.

* * *

How long has it been? A week? Maybe a little short of? He doesn't know, doesn't really care, not really, because what does it matter? He's counting down how many bags of blood he has each day and not the days themselves. Are days people? Did he just personify the days of the week?

Wednesday is a pretty name. Or Sunday. Like the Sun.

'Son?'

'Yeah, exactly.' How did they know? Was he speaking out loud again?

'Scorpius.'

His father is at the end of his small hospital bed in the small corridor of a ward. Every bed is full, and there are 10 beds. So, ten people in each. He is the only person who is under eighteen. Draco Malfoy is dismal. He's pale and his eyes are red and purple. Even Scorpius can see how sad he is, how downtrodden and unkept. Around him, even as his mother was dying, his Dad was a wall, a stoic impenetrable unemotional wall, and now he's a heavy wind away from a coma. It's unnerving, terrifying, really, but he's numb to the potions he's full of, so he can act and smile and laugh it away.

'Yes, father?'

He doesn't look at him when he speaks, he hasn't since he arrived, anywhere but at him. Scorpius doesn't mind, he understands. 'Will you be alright, I need to go to work – to the Ministry to – finish some paperwork for the – I need to finish some urgent cases before – '

'No problem, Dad, I'll be fine. I'm flying high, high on a broom made of rainbows right now, and I really wouldn't notice you were gone because – like I said – my mind is so faaaar – '

'Yes, son, okay, I'll speak with the Healer about what he's giving you.'

'I didn't say that!' He wants to dance on the rainbows forever. 'Please, don't, I love it.'

'Hmm, we'll see. I love you, Scorpius, I'll be back soon.'

'Yes, yes, no, no, I love you too, pops.'

He does love them. The potions. Why did he never have any of this before? It's so fucking great! He should probably be hurting right now, with his blood so ugly and big. But far from it. Like he said, he's flying! He laughs. Like a deep childish chuckle.

_Hudahdahdahdahda_

Oh, the stories he could imagine on these potions!

Something like; a man, or a boy, whatever he is, one day finds himself atop a rainbow. The rainbow is soft, and as light as air, but he's safe right at the top. He isn't scared about being there, if anything he's relieved. Like it's somewhere he was always meant to end up. Instead of an, oh shit, what am I doing? He thinks, ah yes, this it is, I belong here.

The rainbow he sits on evolves as he thinks this, he builds a world from his imagination, the rainbow expands to fit him and his needs. There are schools, libraries, shops, too many houses he can count, but no people. He misses people, the boy. He has everything he's ever wanted but no one to share it with. But of course, he is atop this rainbow, his ever-giving rainbow, and someone appears.

'Scorpius?'

No, that isn't right, he wasn't in this story, he wasn't on the rainbow anymore, this boy was, but what was his name?

' – looking at? Is there someone I need to – '

Scorpius smiles. _Maybe _he was the boy and he had found his rainbow. Maybe it had given him his over-privileged life, and now, because he had everything else, it'd given him –

'Is that you Albus?' But of course, it's him. He'd know him anywhere. In a dark room he'd know him, his smell, of pinewood and spice, but more than that, he'd just know. Because sometimes, don't you _just know?_ There was something about him, or maybe, there was everything about him. As if, to Scorpius, the world seemed content when Albus was near, like he settled better into his skin and everything made sense again. It was like finding a book which just spoke to you, and you thought, absolutely, this is for me, where have you been all this time?

'Whatever, don't answer, I know it's you, if you had on your invisibility cloak, I'd know it was you.' He opens his eyes properly, blinking away the rainbows and the books, to look at him. Take him all in, he stares, indulges, then sighs.

'I do have my invisibility cloak.' He says, from his seat beside him, 'How are you?'

'Great! This potion I'm on, Al, fuuuuck meee, you need to try it.'

His lovely lips almost smile. 'I don't think they'll let me have any.'

'No problem, give me your arm and I'll give you some myself.'

His head shakes side to side, but his eyes are almost lighter. 'That's okay, keep it for yourself.'

Maybe he says something else after that, maybe he doesn't (most likely the case) but Scorpius doesn't hear him anyway. There are sparkles around him, with every move he makes they erupt from him like their being pumped free, at the shake of his head, they fly into the air before cascading down into his lap. Scorpius wants to touch them, to hold them.

How does he not notice what's happening? How he's provoking such beautiful things. Albus, he doesn't – but wants to – say, why are you content with shadows when you light up this room so brightly? Can't you see what you do to me? How wonderful you are? When you look at yourself, what do you see?

He wonders if the Albus he sees and the Albus he sees of himself, if they stood side by side, would they recognize each-other? Would they bare any resemblance at all?

Realisation. Reality. Real. Real. Real. The glitter wasn't falling from Albus' pores, he was just imagining it. Or maybe it was, but only he could see?

He wishes he could bottle this potion and let it run through his veins forever.

When the veil of obscurity falls, and Scorpius can see the world in all of its normality again, Albus is looking at him with concern in his eyes.

'How's Hogwarts, without me?' Scorpius wonders.

He tries to blink away the concern, but it stays, settles there, 'Usual, it's school.'

'Who let you take the time out to even come?' He sits up suddenly, 'wait, how did you even get here?'

Those eyes go back to his lap, where a book is folded open. 'Don't worry about it.' He says finally.

Scorpius just laughs, 'You, sneaky bastard, you.'

And they laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

**_(28_****_th_****_ November) _**

Four of them to one short claustrophobic ward.

Scorpius walks with the aid of Albus into bed number 3. His name is written magically in blue swirls, hovering above his pillows; Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. He asks to have the Hyperion removed, and a laughing Mediwitch casts it away.

'It's like a grave stone.' He says, lead down, looking up at the floating letters.

'Don't say that.' Albus says quietly, 'Please, don't say that.'

* * *

Hours later, Draco comes in, he sits in a wooden chair at the end of Scorpius bed and says nothing, just watches over his son as he sleeps. Draco Malfoy just watches as his sons follows his wife down a lane his small incomplete family never thought would darken their doorway again. But alas, there he sits, numb and noxious in a hospital ward again.

His son. Who he sent off to school at eleven years old screaming and choking on his tears. A baby. A child. Who broke his first wand into two pieces, the first week at that same school because he would rather be without magic than perform what he was told to do. That same son who sat on his mother's knee and watched as she would paint each of his little fingers in every colour of the rainbow. Who would dance for no reason and smile, even at the darkest of worlds, in the worst of places, that boy would smile.

Draco Malfoy had wronged his son. He knew that. He'd sent him away to a place they both knew was no good and no place for him. Where he had come home with no stories but ample sadness and silence. Where he would receive OWL's claiming the boy had run away, not once, not twice, but too many times to count. His mother, his wife, would beg him to just think! And realise! And take their son, their beloved and only grandson from the darkness of that world, where he doesn't and _doesn't want to_ belong. But his father was there, unrelenting, casting his own shadow and darkness over Draco.

Then his wife, his stubborn, beautiful wife had turned grey, cold, and Draco's world had fallen from him, down an abyss he could never have comprehended, and Scorpius had come home. No longer in silence or sadness, but indifference and disdain for a father who didn't know him, one who had unwittingly and knowingly sent him away. Hidden from him his mother's illness, never would he tell him, that was at her request.

So now. Now. In a different hospital but in the very same life, Draco Malfoy sat at the foot of the bed of the person he loved most in the world and begged him in silence and in sadness, not to leave like his mother had. Be it selfish, but he did. He begged his beautiful son to stay with him, his beaten broken shell of a father, because he couldn't face a world without him.

**_(29_****_th_****_ November) _**

'Good Morning Scorpius.'

'Good Morning – '

'I have been heralded as your personal mediwitch mister, how lovely to meet you.'

He opens his heavy eyes and considers the face of a women he knows to be Hermione Granger. He sits up. Runs his finger through his hair, trying to look nice, for Hermione Granger looks beautiful.

'Hello, Hi,' he says, 'You're Albus' aunt.'

She nods, swirling her wand around his bicep. The red letters erupt into the air. She frowns. 'You need to eat more Scorpius, I'll get you some breakfast. You'll need it for today.'

He watches the numbers fizzle out. 'What's happening today?'

'Today, we fight cancer.'

That word alone turns his blood into ice, he gulps the nothing in his throat, 'We do?'

'Three bags of potion this morning, two this afternoon. Fight it good.' Hermione says fleetingly, as if it's coffee, or tea, three a day, morning, noon, night.

'The Healer said I'll lose my hair.' Is all he can think to reply.

'A side effect we can't seem to diminish, that one.' Her lips turn down, her sculpted eyebrows pinch.

Scorpius shrugs, 'No matter, I can just grow it back with magic.'

Her hand falls on his shoulder, 'I'm afraid, Scorpius, that magic can grow hair, but only when there are follicles there for it grow from and initially you will have none, they'll be killed, so you may just have a little time with no hair.'

He runs a hand through it now, again, such a luxury he took for granted, 'No hair.'

'Then the follicles' will return and you can have it floor length if you wish.'

He grimaces, 'No, just like this is fine.'

'Very well, I'll get you some breakfast.'

She leaves just as his father is walking through the door. They pause, Scorpius watches, they pause, there is moment, then time starts again and his father is walking towards him with red cheeks.

**_(1_****_st_****_ December) _**

'What're you getting for Christmas, Al?'

The three Albus' before him watch him carefully, the six pairs of big warm hands steady his shoulders as he slumps towards Albus and off the bed. 'I don't know, how about you?'

The ward is yellow, a slimy, pungent colour, then it warps and goes green, it spins, and he spins too, then he throws up. And one of those three Albus' with all those big warm hands uses their wand to spell it away.

'I want some Galleons.' He replies slowly. 'I just want money.'

'For books?' Albus asks.

'Yeah,' the three Albus' converge into two, then just the one, but he only needs that one. The one Albus nods his dark head. His hair has grown longer, he could tie it up now. There is also some dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, atop his lip. It looks smooth, dark, soft, Scorpius smiles, imagining his pale fingers on that dark skin. 'What are you reading?' He asks before he tries to reach out again.

'Pride and Prejudice.' Replies Albus showing him the cover.

Scorpius had bought it for 'Oh, I didn't know whether you'd actually read that one.'

Green eyes turn yellow, all big and – they spiral around his head, turn pink, green, yellow, Scorpius blinks. Albus says, 'I'm enjoying it.'

Then Hermione walks in, she disconnects the suspended empty bag and at the flick of her wand appears another clear liquid, full and fat, ready to infiltrate his veins and poison his system and rid him of hair and make Albus become Albus times three when Scorpius can barely deal with Albus times one.

'Pride and Prejudice Albus? There is a film, you know.' She smiles at them both, like every-time he is here.

'There is? A muggle film?' Scorpius tries to sit up, but his body won't let him, he groans and falls back.

Hermione nods, 'Oh, yes, it's beautiful.' She leans against the bed, eyeing them both fondly. 'I have it, at home, if you'd like to watch it?'

'You do.' Eyes big, he looks at Albus, he murmurs, 'Wouldn't that be great Al, a film, a _muggle_ film. Thank you.' He grins at her, then closes his eyes as he feels the drop drop of the liquid falling into him.

'You need to eat something.' His father's voice makes him open his eyes. Draco Malfoy is stood at the end of his bed. In a shirt and work pants, with his polished shoes. 'Scorpius, you need to eat.' His voice is low, unwavering.

'I'm not hungry.' He mumbles to three pairs of eyes, 'Please, I can't eat.'

'It will absorb a lot of acid Scorpius, make you feel better.' Hermione mentions.

He just shakes his head.

Then Albus stands up and leaves.

* * *

Scorpius groans, closes his eyes for a final time, away from the swirls of green in front of him, always, in his mind. He feels too nauseous to feel so much, he feels far too nauseous to eat, just one more day, he would eat tomorrow.

He sleeps and dreams of voices.

The unfamiliar calm of Hermione. The deep, stoic voice of his father, and in snippets, the slow, careful articulations of Albus Potter.

'What do you think he wants?'

'I don't think he wants anything, Draco.'

'He's here every-day.'

'I know that. It's wonderful.'

'My son is no freak show.'

'What? Why do you say that?'

'Nothing – I don't know, the way he looks at him.'

'Yes, wonderful isn't it.'

'Granger – '

'I've told you, Draco, please call – '

'There was no need – I am capable of buying my son food, this hospital is well equipped with offering my son food.'

'I know that.'

'Draco, really - thank you Albus, I'll make sure he has it when he wakes up.'

'Okay, good. Thank you.'

The rainbows he saw those first days spill out into his vision. It isn't beautiful anymore though. The colours may be bright but they make him vomit and heave.

When the colours turn from green to yellow Scorpius crawls to the bathroom and empties his empty stomach into the toilet. Eventually, Hermione finds him breathing heavy on the floor. She could have levitated him to bed, but he was small, or so she said, so she carries him instead.

**_(5_****_th_****_ December) _**

'Hello.'

'Hi.'

A girl, two bags hovering above her, stops at the edge of his bed. She has no hair, just a smooth shiny head but big bright blue eyes, and is drowning in her pink fluffy dressing gown.

'Nice to meet you.' She says, her name is Iris, she tells him, she is sixteen, hers is in her thyroid gland. He's never heard of that before, but he swallows the desire to ask. She tells him she's been here three weeks already, Eli across from her has been here a month and Graciela, in the bed across from him has been here two months.

'Two months straight?' Scorpius murmurs, eyes wide. He couldn't imagine being here, in this state for so long.

She leans herself heavily against his bed, she nods.

'Oh.'

'You look good – in your – colour – sorry.' Her eyes are plates, she looks away.

He smiles, 'Don't be sorry, you look green and yellow to me.'

She giggles, 'Oh, the – 'the points to his own floating bag, 'yeah, it does that, I saw purple for a while as well, it goes though. It's the one thing that doesn't stick around. The sickness though,' she shivers.

He nods. 'I don't even know I'm being sick sometimes.'

'Yeah. Sorry, do you mind if I sit down?' She points to the big purple chair to his left. He shakes his head. 'He's nice,' she sits. Her pale cheeks wanting to blush, 'the boy who visits you.'

Scorpius nods because it is true, and he has no reason to hide it.

'Are you both at Hogwarts?' Iris asks.

'We are, in our last year.'

'Oh, I should be in my fifth year, I think, I don't know anymore, I haven't thought of school in so long.' She shrugs her small shoulders, 'I was at Hogwarts too, but I don't remember either of you. Which house are you in?'

'Slytherin.'

Her face falls, and she frowns, 'Oh, I wouldn't have thought – that.'

He frowns back at her, but Hermione saves him from replying.

'Iris,' she looks pointedly at her, 'you need rest, kiddo.'

Iris huffs and blows air from her cheeks, 'I know, sorry, I ache from sleeping so much.' She shakes her shiny head, 'Sorry Scorpius, I'll stop bothering you, you need sleep too, have a good day.'

'That's okay, have a good sleep.'

She gets up unsteadily, her face tense, and shuffles over to her own bed beside him.

When his father comes later, Scorpius whispers to him about Iris, and asks what a thyroid is. Draco doesn't know, and for a moment it shocks him. Because even now, at seventeen, he kind of believes that his father knows everything.

But of course, he doesn't. He's only a human like everyone else, he's only one man, and he lets that realisation settle into him. That they are all so very human, he is, and Albus, Hermione, his father, Iris and Eli and everyone in this room and each person outside of it too. No one knew everything, not one person. That was okay, though, people didn't need too, they just needed to know enough to survive.

Human's sometimes didn't have all the answers, Scorpius realises as the ceiling turns purple, and no one should expect them too.

**_(7_****_th _****_December) _**

Albus tries to keep his studies up. He tries to sit in the library as they always did. At their tiny table in the back, near the Mystery and Muggle Studies sections. He attempts to keep up with his own work and tries to do a little of Scorpius' too because he knows how dear it is to his friend. But there is so much silence now, and in that silence, he once labored in, once craved, he can't focus, can't stand it, so he is stoic, rigid and useless.

One Tuesday morning he sees the same Ravenclaw, with the same friends. He doesn't remember his name but that doesn't matter. The one, who had taunted Scorpius months ago, he ignores them initially, but doesn't forget about them there, so when the man curls his lips and throws a quill at his face Albus takes three strides across the library, chokes his throat and slams him into a table so hard it breaks off its legs and the boy bounces against the floor.

The librarian shoves him away, cursing under her breath. She pushes him into the hallway, screaming that he is barred for the remainder of the year and that he must report to his head of house immediately. But alas, in those relentless hours of cursed silence he is unfeeling, he is the Albus of August again. He stares blankly at the screaming old woman, at the students who carry out the unconscious Ravenclaw.

When they are gone, and the hallway screams at him he slides down the stone wall and picks splinters from his hands.

'Strike two.' McGonagall doesn't even look at him.

He nods and says nothing. He's looking at the picture behind her. His namesake wasn't here the last time he was, and somehow, he'd forgotten about the portrait. But now he sits in his throne and Albus Dumbledore looks over at Albus Potter atop the rim of his half-moon spectacles and grimaces.

' – this means, you have one more chance, just a single chance remaining before further action _has _to be taken. I can't tell you how upset I was with sending that letter to your parents, Albus.'

The old man's bushy eyebrows rise, and he crosses his ankles.

' – deserve this? I understand that your family have a history of – misconduct within these walls, Albus, but not one of them resorted to physically hitting another student. We aren't barbarians, this is a school where people should feel safe.'

Though he wants too, he doesn't say anything to that. Because there is no point in saying it. Albus taps his feet on the floor, he just nods his head at her slowly.

'I should hope you do understand, Mister Potter.' She tips her head forward, 'Intolerance and physical assault are serious matters, unheard of in this school for a long time, I will not have you tarnish the Hogwarts and _Potter _name under my watch.' Her eyes just stare at him, along with the man behind her and Albus crosses his arms over his chest and looks at them back.

When she finally dismisses him, Albus runs his bruised knuckles under the taps until his hand goes numb.


	7. Chapter 7

**_(10t_****_h _****_December) _**

The ward tries to mask its bleached walls with Christmas decorations. Tinsel, sparkling, in a beautiful array of stars, created by the smaller children, alongside snow-flakes, snowmen, there's even a Santa hat or two.

'You should make one.' Hermione says.

He's being hooked up to another bag of poison. He's been sick four times already today, he doesn't even try to move his body. Hermione is blue. The ward is orange.

'A snowflake?' Scorpius replies, 'Okay.'

So she accio's the paper and pencils. Moves the floating table so he doesn't have to move. He cuts the paper, colours it green and silver. Tries to draw a snake.

Albus arrives when he's finished.

'I tried to draw a serpent, like yours.'

He looks over at it. 'It's good, keep practicing, that's all it takes.'

Scorpius grins, shakes his head, 'You're being kind, it's bloody awful, not like yours.'

But he takes the snowflake anyway and sticks it on the wall behind Scorpius' head. Then he sits down. 'Do you want some soup?' He's opening a container of orange liquid which looks too much like sick number three to seem at all appealing. Scorpius grimaces and tries not to start his gag reflex off.

'No, no,' he states quickly, 'I'll have it tomorrow.'

'You need to eat.' Albus sighs and holds up the container.

Scorpius looks at the bag of clear liquid which is slowly drawing him away from himself. 'I know that. I will.'

'Now?'

'No Al, please, not now.'

His hair lays in patches on the pillow. When he moves, it falls off in clumps, Albus uses a charm to get rid of it and Scorpius watches as he tries to do it subtly, with a small flick of his wand but upon seeing Scorpius watching him he shakes his head, like it doesn't matter, and he knows that, but it makes him angry.

'You don't have to do that you know, I know it's there.'

'Okay.' Albus replies and stirs the hot sick with a spoon.

He looks down at the awful soup and back up at Albus, he glares at him. Scorpius doesn't remember a time he's ever done it before. It feels odd to look at him this way, nastily.

'The soup looks like shit. Please don't make me have it.'

'Want something else then?' He replies carmly.

'No. I told you, didn't I? I'm not hungry.' Scorpius says through his teeth.

To that he says, 'You're never hungry, they said this would happen, but regardless, you need to start eating more.'

Scorpius smacks back into the pillows, 'I don't have to do anything. I just throw it all up anyway, so what's the fucking point?'

'You'll be – '

'No, there is no point!' He exclaims, 'It'll go in, and come straight back out, Albus. There's no use, so take your shitty soup and eat it yourself.'

He half expects him to walk out, to tip the fucking soup onto the floor and storm down the corridor. But he's Albus, so he doesn't do that, instead he rolls his eyes up at him and smirks. 'It's not shitty, thank you.'

And all the fight drains out of him. Albus is smiling, as if he knew that would happen. 'Looks like shit.' Scorpius says.

'Doesn't taste like it though. Tastes bloody good.'

Now Scorpius smirks. 'Don't care. You can't persuade me, so don't even try.'

'I'll keep trying until you eat the lot, thank you.'

'Stop thanking me, weirdo.'

Another eye roll, but he puts the lid back on the soup and puts in on the table. Scorpius sees his hand, it's swollen, with bruises and cuts on the knuckles. He looks from it, to Albus then back again. 'What happened?' He points, 'Who did you hit?' He runs his fingers over the broken skin.

'I don't actually know.'

Scorpius snorts, 'Mmhmm, don't tell me you just punched a wall or something, come on.'

'No,' he pulls his hand away, 'I don't know who it was I hit, some Ravenclaw.'

'Macmillan? Again? Oh, holy shit.' He flexes his fingers, '_That _Ravenclaw?'

He nods, 'Probably.'

Scorpius laughs, out right. 'Oh, Al, you don't – '

But Simm's come back before he can say anything else. Before he can laugh again, there's another big fat bag above his head, and another tube threaded into his heart. He's told to lie down, to stare at the snowflakes on the ceiling.

Albus tries to talk to him, but the poison is too distracting, even from him and his deep voice. It makes him feel unhuman and sick. Everything warps around him, even the noise, and he has to close his eyes to stop himself from throwing up.

Hours must pass. But he doesn't realise until the sun is no longer hanging in the sky. He must have slept somehow. He manages the turn onto his side, but the chair where Albus was sitting is empty. He groans. Why does he always have to ruin it? Why couldn't he have stayed awake for him.

In the darkness of the sleepy ward, Scorpius moves over the edge of the bed, holding the headboard with one hand, and places the other over the seat of the chair. It isn't warm, so he left a while ago, but he leaves his hand there for as long as he can stand.

**_ (15_****_th_****_ December) _**

They take turns in walking him up and down the ward. Up and down he goes. Bag floating in the air above him, always there, connected to his heart via the ugly little tube which sticks out of his chest, something he'd rather not think about.

He likes the walks, they give him something to do instead of lying down and trying not to think about the patchy baldness on his head. He tries to speak to all of the other people in the beds around him, but most of the time their curtains are closed, a kind, yet obvious, deterrent.

Today, his father holds his arm and shuffles them up and down, up and down. Each time they pass Iris, who sits on the chair beside her bed, she almost cowers, as if the sight of Draco Malfoy terrifies her. Hermione sees this and smiles, then quietly tells her not to worry, or to draw her curtains, but Iris shakes her head. Hermione says something else, and Iris' face brightens, she nods, carefully stands and clings onto Hermione's arm.

She stands next to him, and they together walk up the and down the ward.

'Want to watch Pride and Prejudice with us tomorrow Iris? Hermione says she can bring it into the family room, with a muggle television, can you believe, do you want too?' Scorpius feels his father clutch his arm tighter, Hermione looks at Draco and smiles.

Iris nods. Smiles, then, coughs, and Scorpius takes her cold sweaty hand in his.

They walk up and down until Eli shouts at them because they are making him feel dizzy.

**_(16_****_th_****_ December) _**

Scorpius sits on the elongated (by magic) settee in the cramped family room. Beside him sits Iris, who is beside Eli. Two bags, Scorpius' and Iris' hang above them. Eli has a buzz of black hair, watery blue eyes. A perpetual scowl on his boyish face.

'Come in, come in, god, I'm tired, when is this shit starting?' He says.

'Oh Eli, Eli, hold on for a moment, while everyone gets comfortable.' Hermione, in casual clothes, since it's her day off and kneels before the strange television set up and the screen turns blue.

Albus sits awkwardly on the arm of the settee, as if he can run any moment he feels unsure. It looks funny and makes him smile, because he towers over everyone almost ridiculously like that. Scorpius pats the free space on his left, and raises his pale, thinning eyebrows. Eventually, Albus slides over. 'Isn't it fascinating Al?' he nudges him and whispers, 'I never needed Muggle Studies to learn about their culture, I just had to get some cancer.'

He watches the film with eyes like saucers, leant forward, mouth open. He laughs at Elizabeth's first proposal. He rolls his eyes when Darcy proclaims his love. But when it ends he turns to his friend, 'Do I have something on my face?'

'What? No.'

'Why were you watching me then? There was a fucking Muggle film on Ally!'

He shoves off the settee and helps Scorpius to his feet, 'Don't call me that.'

'You can call me Scorpy.'

Albus smiles.

**_(17_****_th_****_ December)_**

Hogwarts breaks for Christmas.

The Great Hall is alive with the excitement of the forthcoming holidays. Everywhere there are silver and purple decorations, as that is the theme of the year. It's beautiful really, magical, but Albus doesn't really think about it.

He doesn't eat the Christmas Dinner. It's like a mountain on his plate, that he is not even attempting to climb. There's no hunger in him, there's no Christmas spirit either.

Something the people around him seem to notice. 'Not even Christmas can make you happy, Potter?' Favrotti shouts with a mouth full of turkey and stuffing. Last year his roommate was a strict vegan, and now he has gravy dripping down his chin.

He just takes a drink of his pumpkin juice and he's sure there was a spell he'd heard of once about changing his juice into rum. He tries it in his mind but can't remember.

' – Potter household, do you all just get pictures of the dead people you're named after and cry about how you can never live up to their legacies?'

'Good one, Favrotti.' Albus stands up and says, 'Have a good Christmas.'

Favrotti laughs loudly and slaps the table, 'Voldemort's kid is making you go soft, Potter, you better be careful, or people will start seeing you as an actual human being.'

His shoes squeak loudly in the near silence of the Great Hall as he walks away.

* * *

In the dorm his suitcase is packed and on his bed. There are even purple and silver baubles hanging from the ceiling. Tinsel hanging all around the dark green walls. It looks ridiculous, and Albus knows he's thinking that because Scorpius would say so. Usually, he wouldn't give a shit.

He sits on Scorpius' bed before he can stop himself. He knows it's only a fucking bed. He's been laying beside it for almost six years. For most of those years it was empty, just another place to put his stuff. But now it was something else entirely, it wasn't just a bed.

He closes his eyes and fans his palms along the cover. The school-issued quilt which they all had, the exact same one on every other bed in this room, and in every other room in these dorms. But that didn't matter, did it? Because they weren't the same and Albus was shaking with that realisation.

Something had always been different, for months, two months.

* * *

Ginny Potter picks them up at Kings Cross Station. She stands in a tweed suit and brown fur coat. The air around her is one of class and integrity. As if the people surrounding her are repelling against an invisible wall. They walk metres around her, but do not stop their staring. Is _that _Ginny Potter? _The _Ginny Potter? Their children are ushered under their arms and away. Feet hurry and scutter away as she stands clutching her red leather Chanel bag with her white leather Givenchy gloves with the golden buttons she polishes every fortnight.

_That _can't be _Ginny Potter… _

Albus stops half a metre back from his mother whilst Lily runs into her arms.

'There were carriages of people before you, what took so long?' Ginny smooths down her coat and steps back from her daughter, 'It's December, it's cold.' She starts walking back towards their port key. 'Tea is at your Grandmothers, it will no doubt be ready.'

It was barely three o'clock and his Nana never starts cooking until everyone was there. But he knew not to say anything, Ginny clearly has her own reasons for haste.

Lily tugs her mother's hand and walks along-side her, she never stops her talking, grinning every time her mother acknowledges what she has said. But Albus just watches as their hands come apart every few moments and her mother makes space between them.

He's so used to the dark greens and muted silvers of Slytherin as well as the cold stone of Hogwarts that the Burrow always charms him when he arrives.

It hasn't changed for as long as he has known it. If he was to ever step foot in the Gryffindor common room, he'd feel it was just like this place. The overstuffed couches barely fit into the open lounge, where the worn carpets are bumpy and tough under-foot. A tall stone fire takes up most of the room, causing it to be far too hot to use any of the worn blankets which cover the aging ripped leather.

They all have their allotted places here. So restricted that even in the absence of their extended family, no one ever sways from their position. If anyone is to forget where they belong here, then the handwoven pillows are the reminder.

Two rocking chairs with their backs to the kitchen have indented tired looking red cushions with adorned golden letters, AW and MW. The two couches are splayed with the cushions. Starting, GW, AW, for George and his wife Angelica, then a place where Hermione's once lay, but that was burned in the fire, years ago so RW is there alone instead. GP and HP sit in two more chairs in the spaces between the two couches. They are wood carved and throne like, with pointed pillars at each side, the work intricate and fine, each swirling line etched with gold. Like the king and queen, Albus used to think when he was a child.

FW next to BW is the only other – apart from his own – which is not of red and gold. It stands out with its baby blue background and silver writing. Albus remembers that Fleur cried when his Nana handed it over, as if it meant something far greater to her than anyone else.

CW sits beside PW and another AW, squashing up on the last couch. But Charlie was rarely seen, though seen enough to still warrant a position it seems.

Because there was so many of them, the children's cushions were instead bean bags scattered around the front room. The bean bags were also handwoven, spirals of colour with tiny letters entwined, just in case anyone forgot where they belonged.

On the floor at the foot of their parents sat Victorie, Dominique and Louis or VW, DW AND LW. Beside them were Molly and Lucy, or MWII and LW. Fred and Roxanne where on each side of the fire place, so they could stay warm, they'd said. FWII and RW. Beside the swinging old chairs of their grandparents sat three more bean bags. James, Hugo and Rose. JP, HW and RW.

When his Nana had sewn Rose's after she was born apparently Hermione had kicked up a fuss about the lack of a G. It isn't her name, she'd said, why discount her actual name? But his Nana hadn't taken it into account, clearly, with the lack of it between Hugo's initials as well. He supposed it no longer matters, he wonders whether his Uncle Ron had changed it since their divorce.

Lily's was beside Victorie's, squished between her and Roxanne, where they would stay up talking and giggling until their parents screamed at them to sleep.

The dining room was on the other-side of the fireplace. It had once been a double fire-place set, but after the fire it had been far too hot with both, so the second one had been converted into a nook which housed a book shelf where the fire should have been. It was large enough just to fit one more bean bag. It was white, with purple lines and swirls, and embossed between the lines was AP.

A large window opposite shows the fields surrounding the house. Sometimes, when Albus sat there in the early evening, if he looked at just the right angle he could capture the moment the fat red sun set over the top of the surrounding forests trees.

His Nana shouts him from the kitchen, he hadn't noticed her there, but she was seldom anywhere else. 'Now, where have you been, young boy? Your mother doesn't do crowds, you know this, why make her wait?'

Her back is to him, she is surrounded by stirring pots and chopping vegetables. It's so in sync and conforming. Every few seconds the meat on the stove flips over and sprinkles of herbs fall into the pan. The smells are so known to him, so reminiscent of so much. The spoons swirl and bubbles form into the air, then sway and pop in unison. It never ceases to amaze him, the magic. She snaps her fingers in his face to stop his staring. 'Albus, Albus, do you ever listen, child?'

Ginny and Lily come in. 'Mum,' she kisses her cheek, peels her gloves off and they dance through the air before folding into a small wooden cupboard beside the door, followed by her coat and bag. Albus watches them stack neatly before the door shuts.

'What's the matter with him, Ginny?' Nana is saying, 'The boy is constantly in a world of his own, got his head in the clouds.'

Ginny sways her hand in the air, dismissing her mother. 'Lily,' she pinches her daughter's cheeks, 'how grown up you've got, how is Hogwarts, how is Gryffindor?'

'You ask every-time you write Mum, you know how it is, and I really doubt much has changed since you were all there. Where's Dad?'

Albus sees his Nana frown at the sink, she always did when Lily spoke like that, when she dismissed her mother, but she never did say anything about it. His Nana was passive, she handled her issues with expressions and tuts, rarely vocalising her distaste.

'Your father is at work, where else would he be. That is where I would be if I hadn't – 'she pauses, pouting, 'well, never mind.'

'Rose, Hugo, when are they getting here? Er, why didn't they come with us actually, and Louis and Dominique too?' She settles into her bean bag, 'Are they all coming for Christmas? Like always?'

He wonders why she's asking, because of course they'll all be here. Because, like she said, they always are. All loud and talking about each-other and everyone else. Ron would speak about Hermione, the higher his alcohol consumption the harsher he got. About how up-tight she was, how severe and dull she had always been. He would grip his glass with a red face, spit vile things about her attitude and her 'big fat brain.' His mother would blush at his words before nodding at him to continue, his father would pass him more whiskey, so he kept up with him and eventually they would begin to reminisce. The younger children were sent to bed whilst they all sat around and listened to the tales they told in slurs and hiccups about their glory days.

The sun sets when the clock is at fifteen minutes past four. He watches from his beanbag as it sinks into the trees. His whole family is behind him, sat in their positions like usual. Uncle Ron is loudest, followed by his brother James. They clink their glasses so hard he hears one break, followed by uproarious laughter.

James comes around suddenly facing him. The tip of his nose is purple, and his eyes are red. He scowls at Albus. 'You. Sad. Fuck.' He sways and takes the book from his hands and launches it across the dining room.

' – little cunt always fucking reading. Why do you even come here, mate?' He leans closer, 'You haven't spoken to anyone all night, you never do. Just sit here, alone, you fucking loser, you don't even bother with us. Looking down your nose at your family, the fucks so good about you, heh?'

'Leave it, James.' Ron is shouting. 'Leave it, son.'

James draws back, his eyes look his brother up and down distastefully. 'Yeah, yeah, you're right, ain't worth shit.'

' – me tell you about the Dungeons again eh, Hugo.'

James leaves him be, he flicks whiskey in his face, before grunting and going back to yelling at his family.

Albus throws himself out of the fucking beanbag towards the half empty bottle of Whiskey on the table. Forgetting a glass, he just pours it down his throat where he stands. Until he hears someone cough behind him.

Ginny never leans, it's too common not to stand on your own two feet and bare the weight against something else. So, she stands stoically still, but her blue eyes are alive. As they always are towards him, they are s_eething. _

She steps towards him with her hands in fists. Albus watches her and drinks.

'Mum?' He says, he doesn't know why. Probably to get a reaction out of her, must be the alcohol.

Her slap is expected.

'Alcohol is numbing.' He tells her around the lip of the bottle. 'Don't you know?'

Amber liquid spills onto the floor as she knocks it from his hand. Then her fingers are in his hair, biting as she pulls him around the table, she pushes him against the back door.

'I don't know what has gotten into you, who are you? What has happened to you? Such a subdue little boy, you once were. How dare you speak to me that way.'

Her wand was concealed under her long draping tapestry red robes. But he feels it press against his stomach now. Her other hand rips out his hair. She's so small, he knows he has the force and power to move her, but he won't.

She twists the wand, drilling the tip into him. 'Merlin help me, if you do anything to ruin Christmas for this family, there will be hell to pay.'

He doesn't doubt that. She's glaring at him with those eyes, those eyes so unlike his own. But he doesn't watch her, he ignores the breaking skin under her wand, and watches as the golden whiskey haemorrhages onto the floor and wonders how Scorpius is doing.

**_ (19_****_th_****_ December) _**

Moon rays shine in silver shards through the small hospital windows. Scorpius is trying to sit up in his bed as not to vomit on himself.

'Oh, Scorpius.' A quiet voice is there suddenly, hovering over him. 'Let me get someone.'

He tries to rid himself of the sick around his mouth, but his wand isn't doing anything, so he throws it sluggishly across the ward. 'Fuh-kin' thing.' He wipes it with his bedding instead and tries to get his body to stand up.

'Scorpius, don't move, it's okay,' her hands on his shoulder push him back down, 'You wait, and I'll call for someone to help.'

If he could just get up and sort it out himself, then he'd be okay. The vomit drips down his chin and onto his hospital gown. He wipes it with his hands, but it just smears in-between his fingers. He fists his hands and hides it under the cover as he hears Iris close by.

'Scorpius, I'm going to turn the light on, okay?'

She does, and the harsh glow makes him sick again. All down his front, all over the bed.

'Let me help.' She's whispering, 'I can help.'

'That's alright, I'll do it.'

She's holding some wet cloths and begins scrubbing at his bed.

'Your – wand.' Scorpius leans back, 'That'd be – '

'No, Scorpius, too weak for that.' She says.

And he nods, 'Sorry, didn't think – sorry.'

'Don't be sorry, it happens to us all, it's really okay.'

Small, cold hands wipe across his chest, and he can't look at her as she does it. He has no energy to move away or stop her and it's nice to have the sick taken away.

'Do you like to read?' Iris whispers, 'There are so many books here, I've never seen some of them before.'

Another cloth, somehow, works its way up his neck, 'Muggle,' he replies, 'Most of them are muggle.'

'Really?' He isn't looking but can tell she's smiling, 'You read _muggle _novels, I've never heard anyone do that before.'

'No?' That's sad, he thinks, they don't know what they're missing. 'They're great. Show me a world I don't understand.'

'I don't understand this world, sometimes, never mind the muggle world.' She wipes his face and laughs when he gets some cloth in his mouth. 'Sorry, don't mean to choke you.'

He laughs, 'Want to borrow a book?'

Her eyes get wide. 'A muggle book? I wouldn't know where to start.'

When she's done wiping his mouth, he says, 'The first page?'

His humour doesn't work and she just blushes. 'Isn't it illegal?'

'What?'

She steps back sits on the bed, looking at his pile of books on the side. 'I heard it was illegal to read muggle novels, aren't they banned?'

'I really don't know – does it matter?'

She stands up slowly when the doors open and the night Mediwitch walks in. Iris hovers at the end of the bed whilst the Mediwitch rushes around to clean him properly. She's leaning heavily against it when she finishes and leaves, Scorpius tells her to go to bed, tells her thank you and that she didn't need to help him.

Eventually she sits in her chair with the curtain between them pulled back so they can see each other. 'Stop thanking me, Scorpius, you would do the same and it was nothing.'

'It wasn't nothing.' He watches her, 'so thank you.'

Her eyes roll, 'Go on.'

'Go – where?'

Her cheeks glow, 'Noo, I meant, is there – could I try one of the books – '

'Oh my, of course.' He pulls them onto his lap, showing her each title. 'What type are you looking for? Thriller, Mystery, Mystery-Thriller, Horror, or some non-fiction? How about a science-fiction, or romance?'

'Ooh,' she takes one from him, 'a Romance?'

He grins at her, 'Iris, you don't even know, it's fucking beautiful.'

'Yeah?' She flips it open.

'Girl, yeah.'

'Well, get to sleep boy, I've got some reading to do!' She blushes as she says it, but they are laughing.

'As you wish,' he leans over and kisses her head, 'I'll try not to be sick again, okay?'

'Oh, no, Scorpius – '

'I'm kidding, I'm kidding, I can't stop myself! You know that.' He laughs and flicks her hair. 'But honestly, Iris, thank you, enjoy and sleep well.'

'Yeah, thank – it's really okay. You too, Scorp, you too.'


	8. Chapter 8

**_(20_****_th_****_ December) _**

'What's happened to the Floo Network?' He asks his Grandfather at breakfast.

The fire place that was intact yesterday, has been boarded across with planks of wood, a haphazard job which looks like it took all of ten minutes.

'It's too old and dangerous to use.' Albus has been using it to get the hospital since he arrived, there had been no problems. He pushes his cereal way and inspects it.

'It's been fine – '

' – the fuck would you know, no one even uses it.' James shouts with a mouth of porridge, 'Well, no one expect you, to go visit your – '

'Why is it closed, it's ancient, this type of magic doesn't expire – '

'Dangerous.' Arthur Weasley shrugs, 'Ron said so.'

James glares momentarily as his Grandfather, before biting his spoon and laughing at Albus. 'Shit, what if he _dies _and you'll never even know?'

Before his fist connects with James face, Ron Weasley holds him back and throws him against the wall.

'Crazy fucking bastard!' Ron yells, 'You don't hit your own family!'

Albus pushes him away, 'The fuck you say – '

'Don't touch me,' Ron grabs his t-shirt and rises up to get in his face, 'I don't recognise you, Albus Potter.'

'He's just crying because he can't visit his little bitch anymore.' James stands, grinning at them, 'You know, if I didn't know any better I'd say that you and he were some of those - unmentionables.'

That makes Ron flinch away from him, he wipes his hands on his dressing gown. 'Don't joke about that type of thing, James.' He spits, 'It's practically unheard of.'

James shrugs and sits back down, he sips his juice and eats his food. Ron eventually walks away, back upstairs, Albus presumes, probably to bathe himself and rub away Albus' touch.

Against the stone walls he leans and there is a strong urge to sink to the floor which he fights. Blood pools in his palms because his nails have broken pressing against the brick.

He's still there, bracing himself, when everyone else wakes up. Scorpius once told him that he was like a pillar in a room sometimes. He'd initially presumed it was because he was tall, but he understands what he means a little better now. The realisation pushes him from the wall, right into Lily.

'Watch it Albus, what's the matter with you?'

'Excited for Christmas, Lily?' He answers instead, 'Not long now.'

'I know right!' She practically squeals, 'Five days! Do you know what I'm getting this year, Al? Has anyone told you anything? I know I asked Mum for the Nimbus 6000, but you never know, like, I asked for that new wand upgrade too, and I need a new school satchel but there are so many in Diagon Alley. Dad mentioned something about some new shoes, and clothes, but I don't know.'

'I haven't heard anything, Lil, you'll have to wait and see.'

She rolls her eyes, she sits beside Rose at the table, 'Don't go telling me that I'll have to 'see what Santa brings.' You know that ship sailed looong ago.'

Rose laughs, 'I never believed it all that, Dad said it was just plain lying.'

'What – so you never put the carrot out for Rudolph or the mince pie for Santa?' Lily gapes, 'But it's so magical!'

Her cousin snorts, 'Get a grip, Lil. It's all fake. And we're surrounded by magic.'

'Yeah, obviously, but it's still such a nice thing to believe.'

'It's all lies. My Dad says it's harsh. What parents lie to their kids like that?'

'True, true.' Says Lily.

Albus goes outside and when he feels the wards around the house loosen, he apparates away.

* * *

It's impossible to apparate straight inside the hospital. Unless there is an emergency and you are licensed to do so. Albus isn't, so the closest he can get to the entrance is three miles away. Right in the centre of Muggle London.

It's a wonderful place he finds himself in. Not somewhere he'd usually find himself. There are colours everywhere. Painted on the brick of houses and cafes and nightclubs all along one road. Lights flash in the windows, big bright open signs and drink deals, with something called cocktails he's never heard of before.

He finds himself walking down the street. It draws him in somehow. Makes him feel something he never has before. People pass him and look, but not in their usual way. They have no idea who he is here, he could be anyone, who the fuck even is that man called Albus Potter? He isn't right here, right now.

A particularly loud bar makes him stop. He looks through the window, not so subtly. Pressing his face against the glass. The twinkling lights block his view a little but he can make out the colours emitting from within. Why the colours? What do they mean, why are they everywhere?

Then something makes his heart lodge into his throat.

He recoils from the window and steps off the pavement with the shock of it. But he's drawn back, and he leans against the window once again. It happens again, and again. They move further, go deeper, move and move and – all of it. Albus just stares, transfixed. Enveloped in these people he has never and will never meet.

Phenomenon.

It's the only word he can conjure up to describe what's happening. What it is. It's an utter phenomenon.

Colours dance with them. Wrapping around each of them as they move in unison. Swaying as if they are connected somehow, physically and mentally. Their bodies are so different but act so similar. A black man and a white man. He doesn't know why he notices it, because it doesn't matter, but it settles in his heart. The black man is smaller, lither, and the other is stocky and tall, he has his hands around the smaller man, he's dragging him along the dancefloor, their feet are knocking together and they fall further into their embrace. They sway, they twirl, jump, dance, laugh like Albus has never seen before. Like they are each holding a secret, something that no one else will understand.

There are other people around them, but they don't notice, or they do and they don't care. Because they are so in the moment they are sharing. The world surrounding them has fallen away. Are they even a 'they?' to themselves? He wonders. Or is each of them seeing the other as their entire world?

His hands are fanned out on the glass. He blinks away the twirling men and settles on them instead. They are almost as dark as the man dancing. How would they look on paler skin? He allows himself to wonder. Wrapped around white arms or a white neck. Would the contrast be startling, or subtle? Together, would their differences correlate or repel? Closing his eyes, he sees those arms, that neck, and his arms, much bigger and darker around them, tracing the blue veins and faint bruises on that skin.

Palm to palm, he is so much smaller, so lithe and slim like the man before him. Dancing, standing, just _being _beside one another, he wonders how they look. Is the behemoth that he sees as himself so very apt that the smaller, paler, man sees it too. Behind his wonderful eyes and in that eclectic brain is he really scared of the power Albus looks to behold. Instead of dropping the world with the look of him, would Scorpius want to shelter within it to get away from such a man?

Scorpius.

God, he allowed himself to imagine the name to the face.

It's one thing to imagine, and another to acknowledge it.

'Scorpius.' He whispers. 'Scorpius. Scorpius. Scorpius.'

Is this the life where they become the men in the window?

Or is that on another timeline, in a dimension neither of them will ever discover. Where Scorpius and Albus the individuals become Scorpius and Albus the couple. The unit. The single entity formed from two souls.

He looks back in the window and the men are gone.

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple. Flash in his eyes. For a moment he lets the lights blind him. Then when he steps away, walking from the street and the men and the colours, he feels all together changed, all together terrified.

* * *

'Every cell in the body has the ability to multiply.' Scorpius is saying. 'DNA within the cell decides whether or not it should replicate. There are patterns of DNA and messenger RNA, codons, which allow for many things, one being the ability to replicate and another to die.'

'Die?' Albus replies, 'Killing you or the cell?'

Scorpius turns over and faces him, hands tucked under his cheek, 'Cell death, apoptosis, or cell suicide, but that's another thing entirely, hold on, Ally.'

'Okay, Scorpy.' Albus rolls his eyes and Scorpius laughs.

'Anyway, there are codons to stop a cell replicating, either by killing it or just ceasing its replication. Now, in this old bag of bones,' he pat's his stomach, 'my haemopoietic cells don't know how to stop fucking replicating. The. Little. Wankers.'

Albus leans forward, his chin in his hands, his elbows on his knees, 'Haemopoietic cells? You are talking to a lay person here, Scorp, I need more than that.'

But he shakes his head and doesn't say anything else. His eyes blink blink and look up at Albus. He's really close, Scorpius can see the wonderful freckles across his cheeks. If he could summon the energy to move, he'd touch each one. Maybe connect them all together, make a constellation out of him.

That thought makes him smile.

Albus smiles back. Then he says, 'How many muggle text books has Hermione been secretly lending you?'

Scorpius gasps. 'How could you say such a thing! I learnt all of that from my own research, thank you.' Albus flicks his forehead. 'Ow!'

'Hmm, I don't believe it, you are clever, but there is no way – '

'Two and a half. I've read too and a half and I can't get enough but the more I read the more I understand and the more I understand the more complicated everything seems. Did you know there are four types of blood groups, and not just four, there's Rhesus as well, so like – eight.'

'Eight?'

'I'm AB+'

'and I'm Albus, nice to meet you.'

He throws his head back and laughs, 'Why are you being so funny today?'

Albus raises his eyebrows and Scorpius watches them, he hardly noticed before how shapely they were, how big and bushy and curvy. How they make his eyes so startlingly green, it's beautiful, he's beautiful. Especially so unmasked, like today, so confident and comfortable. It makes Scorpius feel warm inside.

'I'm always funny.' Albus replies.

'Funny looking, more like.' Scorpius bites his lip and reaches over to carefully tap his nose. His mind is reeling, _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, _he can barely contain himself from screaming it out loud.

Albus reaches over and taps his nose before squeezing it and letting go. And he screams internally. For a moment he just breathes and breathes and smiles so big his lips ache. 'What am I going to do with you?' He says eventually.

There is nothing I wouldn't let you do to me. He thinks. Not a thing. Anything. Mentally, physically, emotionally. Torment me and adore me. Savour and discard me. Burn me like the sun with your actions and your words while painting the sky with your laughter. Engulf me until all I am is you. Until my world is nothing but you. Become my morning and my night, my sun and my moon, let the wind speak only your words and the rain fall to the rhythm of your heart.

His fingers move out before he can stop them, and they trace those thick eyebrows and slide down his nose.

The stars aren't stars anymore, he taps the freckles on his nose, I see these instead now, I imagine you above me, like the stars, hovering, so warm and strong and powerful. The stars are spectacular, but you – you are my supernova, brightening my sky and blinding me with your power. But it's too beautiful, and I can't look away.

He touches Albus top lip. Traces the softness with the pad of his thumb. He watches his hand move, side to side over the plushness and the bumps. They are so big, and red, he goes left to right and right to left. I could touch you all day. He grins to himself. Strip you bare and lay you down. I'd map every inch of you. More than once, a thousand times.

It still wouldn't be long enough.

He drops his hand and it just hangs over the side of the bed. Scorpius watches Albus watch it dangle.

It takes him a moment to realise what he just did.

Scorpius turns quickly and closes his eyes. He curls his hands under his body. What was he thinking? Fucking idiot. Fucking brain dreaming dreams he has no right too. Albus is his friend. His fucking only fucking wonderful, god damn friend.

'What was I talking about?' He says eventually.

Albus smiles. 'Haema poetic cells?'

He knows he's joking but Scorpius allows the tension to leak from him momentarily, he laughs outright, then turns back over and rolls his eyes, 'Oh my god, your about to get a whole lesson on it now.'

* * *

Around ten o'clock when all of his bags have drained the life out of him, Albus carries Scorpius to the bathroom so he can vomit down the toilet.

Between choking and panting he says he can be levitated and that Albus can leave the room and doesn't have to sit so close to him, but Albus doesn't really listen and he carries him back to bed anyway. Scorpius says nothing else.

He falls asleep moments later, exhausted and so pale.

Every-time he moves to look over at him, the chair he sits on squeaks, so he stays still, his back stiff and watches the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

Hermione comes in an hour later. She tells him softly, apologetically, that he must go, the hospitals wards are being heightened because its night and he'll have to walk five miles outside of the wards to get home if he stays any longer.

He protests, because really, he wouldn't mind, as long as Scorpius was okay, as long as someone was by him and took care of him.

Hermione tells him she can do that fine, but thanks him anyway.

His hand falls on to his head before he goes, just his thumb moving side to side at the back of his thinning hair. He folds himself in half to touch his lips to his head but at the last moment he pulls away, that seeming too big, too monumental for such a time, not yet, he thinks, maybe not ever.

The stars aren't as pronounced in the middle of the Berkshire suburbs. He can't find the constellations he pretends he understands. He understands nothing.

Fire-whiskey burns through his veins, fogs and clears his mind in sick succession. There are no stars, the moon is shrouded by clouds. He just stares into the blackness of it. He isn't going numb, no matter how long he lies on the wet grass, or how many gulps he takes. It isn't happening, it always happens, but now –

**_(21_****_st_****_ December) _**

'What are you doing with that?' Draco Malfoy asks. He sits in a chair at the end of the bed. Glasses on, he shakes out The Prophet and sets it on the small, floating table beside him. The front page is adorned with an image of Scorpius blinking back at them. Draco quickly flips it over.

'I'm shaving my head.' He says.

He quirks a blonde eyebrow, 'You are? And why do you feel it a good idea to do such a thing in a hospital?'

Albus' eyes darken, 'For Scorpius.' He replies.

'Shaving your head won't save my son.'

He grits his teeth, swallows, 'I know that.'

'There is no need for it then, take your hairdressing elsewhere.' He dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

'No.'

He stands, and Albus looks down to even Draco Malfoy, whose nose reaches his chin. Years of war separate their souls. Their eyes speak different stories from different sufferings of separate lives. Though, he thinks, they may be sharing in the current suffering, 'Leave my son alone.' He bites out.

'He's my friend.'

'He's sick, he's ill, he has no time for ridiculous friends.' He exclaims, 'He is not a spectacle, he is not a wonder to be admired, he is a sick boy who only needs to get better. He doesn't need friends attempting to make him get there by ridding themselves of hair. How noble you must see yourself, to actually think that such an act would make any difference!'

'He's my friend.' Albus keeps his voice even, but he puts the clippers down.

'And he's my _son.' _Draco spits, slumping back into the chair.

Albus doesn't leave. He just sits and ignores the silence and the scowls.

* * *

'What time is it?'

'One am.'

'You aren't allowed here at this time. Did you sneak in?'

'I didn't.'

'Oh, shame, what a story that would have been.'

'Sorry. I just never left.'

'Did Hermione let you stay? I bet she did. She breaks all the rules.'

'Yes, she's on tonight.'

'Good. What is that?'

'A razor.'

'You brought a razor to the hospital? Why?'

'To shave my head.'

'Ha! What, really? You have great hair. Why do that?'

'I could shave mine. Then yours.'

Mine? Albus! Mines falling out anyway.'

'Exactly.'

'You want to shave my hair? Okay, fine! Saves everyone a job of cleaning it up every few hours. But you don't have to shave yours, please don't. I know what you're trying to do and thank you, honestly, really, but don't, you'd shave it for me, but I'm asking you not too, so for me, maybe, don't.'

'I can do that. Would you like me to – '

'Please. I'll just move. Could you pull that chair over? Thank you. Thank you.'

'Ready?'

'Just do it.'

'Feels odd. Smooth.'

'Yes.'

'Thank you. You didn't have to do that.'

'That's okay, I know. I could shave mine. If you – '

'Al, shut up, I already said. Your hair is too nice to shave. Has it always been so curly? Yeah? Fucking lovely. Mine's always been blonde. Like my dad's. Obviously. Ha! Al. Now I look like you-know-whose actual bona-fide fucking kid! What would they say back at Hogwarts, apart from 'I told you so!' Aw. Don't look at me like that. I didn't mean it.'

'I know.'

'Then don't look at me like that. It was a joke. Let the sick boy have a bloody joke, man. Can you come here?'

'Sorry?'

'Come over here. Could you help me onto the bed? Thank you. No, don't go, sit, please.'

'Am I – '

'You're already here when you're not supposed to be, calm your shit. So yes, you are, my bed, my rules, sit.'

'Okay.'

'Are you excited for Christmas?'

'I don't know.'

'Where are you going for it?'

'My Nana Weasley's.'

'Oh, wonderful.'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know much, do you?'

'Not anymore.'

'Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I must have fallen asleep.'

'You always do. Remember? On the train? It's fine.'

'No. I shouldn't, sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'You didn't, honestly, honestly, you weirdo, lay back down, my shoulder, that's where you were.'

'Scorpius – '

'Albus. It's fine.'

'Is it?'

'So, fucking fine.'


	9. Chapter 9

**_(23_****_rd_****_ December) _**

Scorpius, Iris and Eli sit beside a reluctant Graciela whose mother is trying to stop her from getting up.

'Gracie, Gracie, so much good this will do. It's Christmas baby, have some fun, watch these films.'

'Muggle films.'

'No matter in that.'

Hermione walks in. Healer Simms behind her. Both adorn Christmas hats and tinsel around their necks. 'Graciela, worry not, sweet one. There's no harm in it. This is my own television, a muggle contraption yes, but so fun. Merry Christmas.'

'What is it, on there?' She's shaking. She can't stand unsupported, her legs so used to being idle they have become too weak to carry even her bones of a body.

'A film.' Scorpius looks at her face instead, 'A Christmas themed film. Like a long continuous picture with a story.'

'But I'm not in the mood.' She sighs heavily, 'Mummy, I'm tired.'

'I know baby, but this is good for you. Please.'

She holds her mother's hand and watches the film with watery eyes.

'It was good to see you up today Graciela.' Scorpius says, and helps her mother help her up. Squeezes her hand. 'It'd be nice to see you more often.'

'It's just – I'm always so tired. You've lost your hair.'

He nods, 'I know. But the films help me. I read too, do you read?'

She shakes her head, 'I sleep.'

'Ha. Me too, so much. But if you want to read, I have books, loads of books and you can have some, if you'd like, anytime.'

She smiles slowly and her mother rubs her back. 'Thank you, Scorpius.' Her mother says. 'We need sleep now. But thank you. Rest yourself.'

* * *

They think he's sleeping.

'Another?' Draco hisses. 'Where?'

Hermione, 'Diagon Alley. Mass attack, the Prophet proclaims. 10 dead. Another 50 injured. I'm surprised it isn't more. There are some upstairs, survivors. They say they were clad similar to – _his _followers _before._ Dark clothes. But green and silver, suggesting – '

' - Slytherin.'

'Yes. They sprayed his name on the windows. Called for him to find them.'

'They won't find him here will they, here, here he is safe?'

'Entirely. We have charms, guards, spells, nowhere safer. But worry not Draco, they won't find him here. They wouldn't harm him however, they want to follow him.'

'How can they presume – '

'I can't say. There is no basis for the assumption. Though it was thought it was due to his absence at Hogwarts for the beginning of his life.'

His father coughs, 'For that, I have my reasons.'

'You don't have to explain. Not to me. You had your reasons, fair enough. But your actions have been perceived in a way you could have never thought. There's an army building their doctrine on a sick seventeen-year-old boy because he is the grandfather of a known death eater. Somewhere his lineage has become twisted to something else entirely. No matter why it happened, it just has, and it isn't going away.'

'I was assured it would be dealt with. The rumours, the presumptions, years ago, I thought I'd rid myself – us of this burden.'

'Auror's have been sent, ministry officials also, but they were last time and – ' she pauses, 'It isn't your fault, don't believe that, never, please, you can't help – you had your reasons, please Draco. It will all be well.'

'You can't – don't say that to me.'

'You'll get through this. Like so much else you have. You and him. It could all be nothing, could all blow over soon, but for now please know he is so safe, so safe, don't worry.'

'My son – '

'Is loved, and safe, that's all he needs right now. Draco, Draco, don't cry.'

Winter. It confuses him at the best of times. But now that he only has a single window at the end of the ward to see outside, the premature darkness makes the days seem so much longer.

When his father leaves at quarter to four, the sky is already black so when Albus runs down the ward at six o'clock it almost feels like the middle of the night.

Cancer doesn't know it's Christmas. So despite the day he's still pumped full of poison but he prises his eyes open because Albus is here now.

'Merry Christmas Al.'

'Merry Christmas Scorpius.'

'I made you a snow flake. I know, it's shit, I tried to draw a snake again, and,' he pauses, pulls it back, 'ah fuck, it's awful, sorry.'

Albus shakes his head, takes it from him, 'It's great, thank you.'

'You liar. You ridiculous liar.'

'I never lie. I got you this.'

Scorpius peels the paper away, then his breath catches, 'Al. Shit.'

'You have to put muggle money into it to send any messages. I put some on, don't know how much. I got one too.'

Scorpius turns it over in his hands. Disbelievingly. 'I've only ever seen pictures in books. Oh my. Where did you even find one? No, don't answer. I don't care, I just. Thank you!' He pulls his arm and squeezes his hand. 'Al, did you say you had one. We have numbers. That's how we message. Through the numbers.' His teeth snap together as he grins.

'Yes. I read that too. I added the one I have.'

He taps on it, looking at things he can't wait to understand.

'Send me one then, go on, a message, oh, do you know how?'

'I do.'

'Come on then.' He smiles, his lips are cracked and bleed with the force. Albus leans over. 'No,' Scorpius wipes the blood, 'forget my lip, leave it, put your wand away, sit down and please please message me on my new muggle mobile phone! Portable as well! Oh, Al, thank you thank you!'

'I should be out before New Year.' Scorpius looks up at him from his mobile phone, 'Hermione says I've had my intensive month. I need a break now. So, I'm having a little break home before it starts again.'

Something lifts from Albus' chest, but only slightly at those words. 'That's good news.' He nods.

'Yeah man, you're telling me. I get to spend Christmas at home, can't fucking wait.'

'I bet.'

'We could message, with these, over Christmas, over New Year.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

**(25****th**** December) **

Scorpius (6.12am): I welcomed Christmas with a nose bleed and a hefty purge of last night's meal. Hope your day is less disgusting than mine! Merry Christmas Albus!

Albus (6.14am): Sorry to hear that, I hope your day progresses to be just as you deserve. Merry Christmas.

He smokes outside on the front steps looking at the sprawling green fields over the countryside. Whilst his parents discuss him in hushed tones in the burrow's lounge. They're trying to be quiet and Albus is trying not to listen, but it's like a car crash, he can't not. So, out of morbid curiosity he listens.

Ron begins, 'I've never even heard of it!'

'Doesn't mean it isn't there Ronald.' Ginny replies.

'History has shown that it is a – _thing.' _His Nana. 'You must have heard about what the romans got – '

'Thanks, Mum.' Ginny, again, sharp, 'I know what you mean. And yeah, I've heard of it, I'm frankly surprised you haven't Ron.'

His Uncle snorts, too loud, they all hush him. 'Oh, he isn't even here, shut up with that. Ginny, I'm amazed to think you'd even ask me that. Why would I even consider beginning to understand something so – '

'Perverse?' His father.

'Well I wouldn't – maybe – yeah.' Ron pauses. 'But you can't be sure, can you? I mean, who would ever – and why do you even think something so – yeah – '

'Right Ron, whole lot of sense you made there.'

'Fuck sense. You're the one assuming a member of this family – '

'Hush Ronald! For goodness sake, be sensible about this, son.' His Grandfather says, 'We have to be sensitive about this. The boy might need help – '

'There is no known cure for such afflictions.' Harry Potter says, 'When Ginny first told me what she thought, I checked, not here or in the muggle world, despite their trying.'

'No trying in this world?' Molly Weasley says, aghast. 'Why ever not!'

Arthur tuts, 'Now whose being irate! Calm down woman.'

'There's been such an insignificant number of Magical cases that the Ministry has had no need to make treatment or therapies available.'

'Where'd you get that information,' Ron snaps, 'bloody Hermione.'

His father snorts, 'No Ron, I haven't seen her since your sodding divorce.'

'That's hardly the issue right now Harry.' Ginny chastises, 'I don't know what to do. About him. About anything.'

His Grandfather lowers his voice, 'I barely see the boy, all I notice are the stacks of empty whiskey bottles.'

'Is he drinking?' Molly gasps, 'How on earth does the boy have access to – '

'- I don't know. Does he drink alcohol, I didn't know that.' Ginny says. 'Why are we always discussing that boy? When he does not even have the decency to speak to us, to anyone. He is forever in his head, thinking and day-dreaming about – '

'- the person he goes to visit every day – ' Ron laughs. He hears her tutting and fumbling in distress, there is movement and he imagines that they surround her. A little bubble of righteousness, making Ginny Potter feel mighty. His Nana is tutting along, 'We'll sort it,' she says, 'it'll be okay. We'll fix him.' His grandfather grunts his approval.

'Is it possible, how is it possible.' Ron states, 'What the fuck will be the cost, financially, and who will pay, what if you spend all that money and nothing changes?'

'What has he done to you, to us!' Harry shouts suddenly.

'Does he even deserve treatment, if it is made available?' Sweet old frail Nana says, 'The boy is who he is, I don't know if curing one ailment will change him.'

Albus smokes his fifth cigarette.

'It can't hurt.'

'Is it worth it?'

'I don't know Harry. There's so – '

' – so much to consider.' Molly finishes, 'he's still young. This – this – it could all be a phase. A silly misconception, I wouldn't be so – radical with someone so young.'

'The boy is eighteen Mother,' Ron says, 'a legal adult. You know what I was doing when I was his age? You know what I'd been through by the time I was eighteen?'

'We know Ron, we know. Times are different now, there's no comparison between our suffering and his.'

'Suffering?' Ginny scoffs, 'He gets everything he could ever want, the boy wants for nothing! He doesn't know what suffering is! The kids live privileged lives nowadays, thanks to us, and all we did. Suffering, pain,' her voice rises, 'they have no idea what that feels like, at all. We never had time to think about our own issues, not like they do today, with their depression, with their issues, their problems! Problems! Try war for a fucking problem! You think I sat around during those days of war, and cried over how many had died, how we lived in constant fear of death! I got up – we all did – and fucking dealt with it.'

'Darling, darling, I know.' His father replies slowly, 'we'll figure something out. We'll sort him out.'

'Who is he, Harry? Your son – who is he?'

He's run out of cigarettes though his body protests for more he can't bring himself to get his packet from the kitchen. Instead he takes his mobile device from his pocket and walks the half mile across the fields and breaks through the wards.

Albus (2.22pm): Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Scorpius (2.30pm): I haven't the slightest idea.

Albus (2.38pm): That muggle religion you talk about sometimes…

Scorpius (2.44pm): Are you being funny? Or just getting all sentimental because it's Christmas?

Albus (2.50pm): Probably both. Anyway, do you believe any of it?

Scorpius (2.53pm): Which one?

Albus (2.55pm): There's more than one?

Scorpius (2.58pm): Yeah, Al. Shit loads. I mentioned Christianity the other day though – and that's synonymous with Christmas soo, that the one you mean?

Albus (2.59pm): Sure, that one. Do you believe it?

Scorpius (3.02pm): There must be something to it, if so many people follow it right? From what I've read there are some interesting lessons, but – I don't know. Sometimes I like to think there's someone – other – out there watching over us. And I'd like to think that my life has sort of fucking meaning, and that everything happens for a reason. I can make magic, so why can't there be an omnipotent being who created everything and protects us all. But, as well, can I really say I believe it but then pick and choose only part of what it teaches. Honestly, it isn't for me. But, fuck is it interesting.

Scorpius (3.03pm): Sorry if that was long, I'm bored.

Albus (3.05pm): I agree. I think anyway. I can't say I know anything about it really, but yeah, it's interesting.

Scorpius (3.09pm): Why'd you get all philosophical?

Albus (3.11pm): It's Christmas.

Scorpius (3.17pm): I hadn't noticed.

Albus (3.20pm): No?

Scorpius (3.22pm): Nah. Hermione always wears reindeer antlers, right?

Albus (3.27pm): Obviously. And the decorations, they always there?

Scorpius (3.30pm): Fuuuuck. That what they are… I thought my eyes were making shit up again.

Albus (3.36pm): Not funny.

Scorpius (3.38pm): Whose joking? I liked you purple.

Albus (3.41pm): I didn't.

Scorpius (3.44pm): You make no sense. What did you get for Christmas?

Albus (3.50pm): Presents, you?

Scorpius (3.57pm): Al!

Scorpius (4.01pm): Beautiful hospital Christmas dinner is here. I better go, don't want to miss it! Dad's having some too, can't wait to see his face when he tastes it! I'll take a picture for you! Merry Chrimbo Al! (That's what all the cool muggles say)

Albus (4.03pm): Merry Christmas. (What all the cool magics say).

Outside of the wards the air seems cleaner, lighter without the presence of strong magic. He sits down and thinks.

He could go to the hospital, he knows this, and sit with them and eat the horrible food. But it was a selfish move. It was Christmas and Scorpius deserved to be with his family, his Father, just the two of them at such a time, because it was a time for family. Draco Malfoy deserved that too.

When did he begin to dictate what others deserved?

His hand reaches for whiskey which isn't there. It's just air and it makes his heart fall.

The fields around him are beautiful. The slight frost makes them sparkle. The hills surrounding him are domes with sprinkles of white snow atop them. He's never seen a bluer sky, not a cloud in the sky, just the relentless low hanging too bright sun which blinds him if he looks the wrong way at it.

But it's nothing on where he wants to be and the view that beholds him there.

* * *

The settee has been elongated again.

Scorpius, Eli, Iris, Graciela. They sit beside each-other, four clear bags hang above them, connected to each of their separate hearts. Their families sit before them.

Hermione's thick curls tickle against his legs.

His father's sits beside her on the floor, hands are in tight fists. As if it's a task not to use them.

Graciela sits beside him. There is a tube up her nose. Her mother sits on her other side, rubbing her shoulders. She has bright blue eyes, Graciela, big and bright and wet with constant tears. She seems a poster child for torment, for pain. For this cancer which is eating them all and spitting them out. Scorpius holds her wrist and squeezes. Those blue eyes look at him.

'I_ love_ this one.' He whispers, 'get it? Because of the name?' He grins, she does not. So, he tries, 'Honestly, I watched it a week ago, with Al, he didn't cry, but he never does, but hell I almost did. But it's not sad Graciela, it's so happy, so try not to cry, or you'll miss the best bits.'

'Yeah Gracie.' Iris says, 'I watched this one yesterday with Eli. He _did _have a little tear in his eye at the end.'

'Oi, did I bollocks!'

'Eli!' His mother chastises, his father chuckles.

'I didn't!' He's whining.

Iris turns to him, grabs his chin and grins, all teeth, 'Mm maybe it was just your reaction to the hot women coming through the airport.'

Eli laughs. 'Yes, you got me.'

'Eli!' His mother, again, his father chuckles, again.

'See? Graciela, it's such a good film. You'll enjoy it.' Scorpius smiles at her.

Scorpius (9.23pm):

Scorpius' Bucket List:

_fly a broom – well _

_write a poem _

_watch a muggle television_

_watch a muggle film_

_write a novel_

_drink alcohol until I am sick _

_fly on a muggle aeroplane _

_get a tattoo _

_find a friend __– Albus Potter_

_shave my hair _

_give and receive a meaningful hug _

_hold someone's hand _

_hold them_

_kiss them _

_find someone _

_find myself _

Albus (9.30pm): You will need to start adding more soon.

Scorpius (9.31pm): You don't know me at all, that's all I've been doing.

* * *

Somehow, he finds himself at the hospital despite his own reluctance.

Everyone bids him a merry Christmas as he walks by. Even the quiet girl from the ward, Graciela and her mother.

But Scorpius is sleeping when he says it to him. He leans over the bed and watches him peacefully. He has a Christmas hat on his head. There are green and silver snowflakes hanging down from the ceiling.

In his hands are his colourful pens and his open diary. Albus takes a moment and smiles before pulling them free. He's curled in on himself, so he must be in some pain, he almost forgets sometimes, that he's constantly hurting. He looks to the chemotherapy bag, it's empty. He sometimes forgets what he's being pumped with, how it could make his intestines bleed, or how it's so violent it makes his hair fall out.

Ginny Potter was perhaps correct, he did not understand suffering.

He allows himself ten minutes with him. Just to be there, in case he wakes up, in case he needs him maybe.

But the time passes and he is still settled and sleeping.

It takes him another ten minutes before he forces himself to leave.

For an ancient pub you would think their walls would be adorned with historical figures. From the dawn of time, perhaps? Or the Victorian times? Even in the era of the first wizarding war. But no, instead the new, apparently younger-than-usual owner of the pub has elected for his father to take centre piece just about the grand fireplace right in the middle of the seating area.

On the walls beside the three-foot Harry Potter are Ron and Hermione. Underneath was shrines. Shrines to people still living. People had felt others also needed memorialising, something Albus agreed with. They had stuck pictures of other heroes onto the brick and the owner had clearly not stopped the venture because they were full.

The day Ginny Weasley became Ginny Potter was shown at least ten times. Hermione becoming a Weasley, and then denouncing it. Neville through the ages, Luna, young, old, older, with her husband and some of her children. Dean Thomas who had not been heard of since the battle, had his own partition of the wall, Seamus Finnegan beside him, with his wife and his five children. So many Weasley's he couldn't count. With all of their children.

He finds himself at-least thirteen times.

Four whiskeys in, he stands up and starts to peel the pictures of himself from the wall.

Younger-richer-newer barman pushes him into a table before he can even peel the first one half away.

'You're defacing my property!' He screams at him, 'You stink of alcohol, what are you – homeless?'

Albus says nothing and lets the man shove him around. What does it matter anyway?

'Are you deaf and dumb too, idiot, have you escaped from somewhere, are you lost…why are you peeling my pictures off the wall?'

It's my picture, it's me, you fucking moron, he thinks but doesn't say. The barman probably wouldn't believe him and it's useless anyway, he's too focused on the wall of memories of himself he can barely fathom to remember. There's a certain one that just has to leave the wall, just has too. Albus, child Albus, about six, he's holding hands with his father who is holding hands with Ginny. They were at the beach, the sun so bright that little Albus can't see and he's squinting his eyes and hiding behind his arm. Harry looks down and laughs at him, a lovely laugh, adoring, and he ruffles his hair. He remembers the day, probably better than he should, he was only six years old. It has to go. So he does it quickly, smoothly, and rips it up and throws it into the fire.

The picture must have been a special one (to the bar man at least – though Albus cannot understand why) because he hits him hard.

And when he gains no reaction from his supposed thief, the owner hits him again

-and again

-and again

But this was nowhere near suffering. He didn't even understand the first syllable of the word.

He hits him, avoiding his face, until someone screams.

'Get the _fuck _out of here!'

He can't help thinking it is a bit of an over-reaction to the small insignificant picture, of himself, no less. Not that the man seemed to realise that, and it didn't matter anyway. But as he turns around he sees half a dozen pictures of himself on the floor and a fist shaped hole through his father's face.

Ah.


	10. Chapter 10

**_ (29_****_th_****_ December) _**

He wakes up with a scream in his throat. He looks to his left, out of habit, but of course finds no-one there, for he is alone in his Nana's spare room. James is with his Uncle.

Yesterday's empty Fire-Whiskey bottle is smashed in shards on the floor. He thinks about using a cleaning charm to avoid any temptation. But as his wand is hovering over the glass he falters, remembers, and his hands shake. He grits his teeth painfully, locking his jaw. Then his hand involuntarily reaches out and takes one. Slipping it into his pocket. Then he opens the door, and walks to the kitchen. There he finds a litre of rum, something he stashed away years ago, he'd almost forgotten. He remembers stealing it from Hogwarts kitchen, fourth year. It must be at least 50 galleons and 100 years old.

He swallows almost a third still stood in the kitchen with the cupboard door open, leaning against the worktop. It numbs him a little. Then he steps outside into the bitter bitter cold and his fingers are bitten with frost. His bare feet blister red in the ice.

He lays back and finds the constellations. Trying not to choke on sweet Rum.

The mobile in his hand is heavy. There is so much he wants to say but can't seem to find the dexterity in his fingers to type it out. He just says,

Albus (2.31am): Have you read anything good lately?

Scorpius (2.59am): I read the ingredients of the potions they give me. Does that count?

Albus (3.14am): No.

Scorpius (3.20am): Then no, not really. Why, do you have some good recommendations for me, at … half 3 in the morning?

Albus (3.22am): I haven't read anything good recently either. I don't know why I asked really.

Scorpius (3.26am): Is everything okay?

Albus (3.39am): Sometimes I dream about you. No. There are some nights I don't dream about you – and I wake up and I'm choking because you weren't there. I scream those nights – I cry as well, sometimes, like a big fucking baby, I can't help it, I don't know I'm doing it. You engulf me. Even thinking about you makes my throat close up. Have you experienced that? That hot feeling in your spine, as it tickles and loosens and somehow you just feel different, better? I feel that – I feel that and so much more with you – just you - always you. Is everything okay? I can't say…

He deletes it before his compromised brain can begin to acknowledge what he has written, instead he types,

Albus (3.47am): I'll leave you to sleep. Night, Scorp.

Scorpius (4.03am): Hope you're doing good, Al. You sleep now too, okay? Night night.

* * *

The next morning, he only trips up twice on the walk to the hospital, before he goes through the doors to the ward he has to lean against the wall to stop from falling over. Why did he have those last three drinks? Why did he even start with the first one?

Thankfully, he thinks morosely, upon sitting in the chair beside Scorpius' bed, his friend is asleep. So, he settles in the chair and inconspicuously covers himself in another cleansing spell. He probably smells of potent disinfectant at this point, but that was better than stale alcohol.

The hospital is more alluring than returning to the Burrow. The fucking Burrow. Who even called it such a ridiculous name, he wonders. Animals lived in burrows. Well, perhaps that was the point. The thought makes him laugh, the muscles twinge as he does it, for it has been a while.

White walls are peppered with Christmas decorations. The tinsel sways magically from side to side between each of the beds. It's purple, like Hogwarts, because every other primary colour represents something in the magical world and no ministry association can be seen as being bias.

But behind each of the four beds are decorations which show their own personal affiliation. Eli is Ravenclaw, no doubt, by the blue and silver birds flying in circles behind his head. Albus remembers when he drew them, and how he said it looked comical, like he'd knocked himself out in something called a cartoon. Scorpius had then told him a 'cartoon' was something muggle, on the television, he'd seen plenty, of course he had.

Beside Scorpius, Iris' bed is shrouded in red and gold. Though a little of the gold is now green, or was at-least, for Christmas. Two drawings of golden lions are behind her on her own stretch of wall. They roar when she wakes up and walk up and down, up and down their small papers, and when she sleeps, they sleep with her too. It had taken him four days to draw both of them, and finished, Scorpius had named one: Darcy, after his favourite book character, after she had insisted he did. Iris named her other lion, Siri, for herself, Siri was her strength, he roared every-time she woke because it was a triumph that she woke at all.

Graciela's bed was bare. Not of her, sadly, she remained, curled around her mother who strokes her hair and whispers all good things into her ear. Or so he presumed, her curtain remained closed off. Scorpius had drawn her a picture at Christmas, it was of the four of them on the settee, with the television on, smiling and laughing, and it was the single personal item of hers on display, stuck to the end of her bed, so you couldn't miss it.

Scorpius' wall is covered. Not a patch of ugly white paint remains. Pictures and drawings overlap each-other and some dance between paintings. Sometimes when he slept Albus stuck Scorpius' work to the wall and covered up his own, he didn't want to see it, Scorpius' was far better.

'Why is a raven like a writing desk?'

Somehow, his voice doesn't shock him, he just looks from the wall into his eyes. They are hazy with sleep, but then they must focus on what he is seeing because they squint so tight they seem closed.

'I really don't – '

' – _fuck _happened to your face?'

Ah. That he had forgotten about. He touches it and presses the bruises to remind himself.

'I fell – a raven though is – '

His mouth falls open. 'Seriously, oh my god, your _face.' _

As he leans over, probably to touch him, Albus leans back, and Scorpius' face visibly drops.

'Leave it, it's nothing. Really.' His tongue is too big for his mouth, 'Howhaveyoubeen?'

Scorpius scowls, if he had eyebrows they would be drawn and low. 'What's the matter with you?'

He doesn't shake his head because he might be sick. 'What?' He feigns innocence, stupidly.

'Who hit you?' He says, this time his hand reaches out before Albus can move away and his cold fingers smooth down the side of his face.

Albus shivers.

'Al, why are you always fighting?' He whispers it, soothingly, in that smooth, sharp, wonderful voice he has, that does things to him, things Albus can't find words to describe.

He thinks about lying, about insisting that it wasn't a fight and he did in-fact just fall. But this is Scorpius, _Scorpius _–

'I didn't realise,' he finds himself replying, 'What happened – I – don't really know, one minute I was drinking and the next I was being thrown out – The Leaky Cauldron – '

Albus expects him to gape, or roll his eyes, but Scorpius rolls over and his hand falls from Albus' face into his lap, where he stretches over and takes his hand. It's small and cold and a little clammy, but Albus feels nothing but him. His body hums but his hand – his hand _glows. _

* * *

'You're Induction phase is over Scorp!' Hermione's eyes are red, but she is smiling at him. Her Medi-witch uniform is crumpled and stained, her hair is falling out of its plaits but she's smiling with so much glee he can't help but crack his chapped lips into a grin too.

'Great!' Scorpius sits in a wheelchair. Black pants and black t-shirt on. He's showered, teeth scrubbed, face shining, he feels almost brand new.

Hermione gives his father his bags, 'Great indeed. Now you'll have a week at home, you lucky man, then we start twelve weeks of consolidation treatment.' All that, she says with a smile.

'Twelve – 'His father drops the bags.

Hermione picks them up, tugs his hands and makes him hold them again, 'Draco,' she looks at Scorpius, 'we have killed most of the existing cancer cells. Now, no, don't look away Scorpio, Scorpius, this is good news. We killed most of them, but we didn't expect to kill them all. You've done so well this month, so well.' her tired eyes brighten and she squeezes his shoulders.

Then healer Simms comes in, face drawn, heavy with an arduous work load, heavy with the night's events. 'Scorpius Malfoy! My most subdue patient. How great you are doing, yes, yes, twelve weeks of consolidation. We've killed most of the existing cells and slowed down the production of new ones, very significant indeed. Now rest at home, take it easy and when you come back in the new year, you'll be with us Monday through Wednesday and then rest at home Thursday until Sunday.'

**_(31_****_st_****_ December) _**

He's drunk.

But it's okay to be drunk, it's New Year's Eve, where he can blend in and pretend he hasn't been slowly ebbing into the abyss since 7 am this morning. He can pretend he had a mug of tea with breakfast when it was in fact butter beer only charmed to look otherwise.

It isn't healthy though, really, for him to be drunk here. Not in this house, with the people he's surrounded with. His mind starts to wander, think's too hard, races with thoughts he'd rather never have. Whilst everyone is sat around the fire, laughing and shouting as they do so well, Albus blends thankfully into the floor and starts his own personal pity party.

In his mind.

Because, like anyone on this earth, all he wants is to be accepted. To be heard and cherished and – considered. He doesn't enjoy sitting silent and tense amongst his family. They are his family, no one should feel so extra-terrestrial surrounded by those who are supposed to love and cherish them the most.

But he can't help how he feels towards them. When they see him with such distance and mirth, and do it so obviously. Why have they got to be obvious about it, but in the most passive ways. Wouldn't it be easier to simply scream at him, like James does, or Ginny, instead of carefully sectioning him away from everyone else. If they did not accept his Slytherin title, then they didn't have to make him a bean bag. The white and purple of his own just accentuate his distance, surely? He would have accepted nothing, over that.

Is that why he is so hard to love? To get a smile, or a laugh or a joke out of them? Because a century old hat decided his fate was in Slytherin? A decision out of his control. Or was it because he was Albus, Albus who never yells, or screams or cries, whose emotions don't come easily to him and when they do, expressing them is just as hard?

It is because he isn't Lily, who weeps so openly, who wears her heart on her forehead never-mind her sleeve. Who slams doors and rocks in her mother's lap when another boy breaks her heart. Or maybe because he isn't James, whose emotions bare no filter. They are so painfully obvious across his face, there, blatant for all to see and fear and help diminish. Everyone stops for him, rotates around how he is feeling. Sometimes the first words spoken as he comes down for breakfast were that James was mad, so they were discussing how and why they could calm him, help him – it was lovely really, how far they bent themselves to appease his brother.

He did it too. He had too, he was his brother of course.

When they were younger, Lily used to sit in his lap, sometimes, and they would rock together on the floor of her room, while she would cry and cry as Ginny screamed at their father downstairs. He didn't miss those days now, but he missed how close they became, he missed how it felt to be an older brother.

His mobile phone device buzzes in his hand, he sighs slowly, trying to calm his mind. He opens the message.

Scorpius (23.09pm): Apparently alcohol has no efect on big fat blood so I'm drinking the nght away! Hope u are 2!

Albus (23.10pm): Of course, it's New Year's Eve.

Scorpius (23.16pm): Is it Al? I had nooooo idea!

Scorpius (23.20pm): I stole sme of dad's alcohol b4 bed. Dad has no clue hahaha! Mybe at the hospital they can put alcool in my veins not poison!

Albus (23.25pm): But Scorpius, alcohol is poison.

Scorpius (23.27pm): But the gd kind!

Albus (23.30pm): You shouldn't drink so much, could be bad for you.

Scorpius (23.34pm): ! Oh fuuck off! U sound like my Dad! Or Herminee, let me have some fun. Fuk sake!

Albus (23.36pm): How's it been at home?

Scorpius (23.40pm): Hermynee;s here a lot! N I mis the televisson!

Albus (23.44pm): You could ask your father for one?

Scorpius (23.45pm): MMM. Don't no! It's almost new yr!

Albus (23.47pm): It is.

Scorpius (23.50pm): Want to wayt for it?

His phone vibrates and doesn't stop. He looks at it, see's Scorpius name flashing on the screen and walks out of the lounge into the kitchen.

He fumbles with it, then hears something, and says, 'Hello?'

'Hello?' A whisper, a laugh. 'Al?'

'Hello? What is this?'

'A call, _caaaall_, see, ay, el, el, I'm ringing you, this is proper muggle communication Ally!'

'Don't call me that.'

He laughs, 'Sorry, I'll call you Al. You can call meee Scorp.'

'Scorpius is fine.'

'Scorpy it is then!'

'Scorpius is fine.'

He snorts, 'You are relentless.'

'You are drunk.'

'Mmm, I am, so are you, I can tell. You think you're good at hiding it, but you're not _that _good. I'm very perceptive.'

Albus takes a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen table and goes outside. It is dark and cold. He lights one. 'You need to stop smoking, it could give you cancer you know.' Scorpius chuckles.

'Okay. I'll stop.'

'You won't.'

'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps nothing, mister smoker, shhhhmokey, you never will.'

'What time is it?'

'Don't know, can't move.'

'What?'

He laughs, 'I'm too drunk to move, not too ill, jeez.'

He looks inside, 'It's five too.'

'Ooh, okay. Should I say something?'

'Sorry?'

'You knooow, something meaningful, it's a new year!'

'Almost and if you want.'

'Almost yes, exactly! Well I'm going too because I'm drunk. So, this year, the last part of it anyway, the better part - I just want to say thank you very much, I guess, thanks for everything, you're a great friend, the best of friends.'

'It's three minutes too.'

'Oh, great reply there, smokey,' he pauses, 'honestly though, I'm drunk as a – anything – but I mean it, thanks a lot.'

He throws his cigarette away, lights another. 'Two minutes.'

'Do you think the killings will stop Al?'

Albus frowns, 'Don't talk about that now.'

'I know, it's grim as fuck, I know that, but I can't help thinking – '

'Please, it's almost twelve.'

'Oh, how long?'

'Fifty-five seconds.'

'I never thought I'd get cancer this year.'

'No, I don't – '

'Or watch a muggle film!' He laughs. 'Or have a mobile device, or drink, or shave my head, or find a friend like you, or fa – '

'Or?'

He laughs breathlessly, 'Happy New Year, Smoker man.'

'Happy New Year.'

'…Scorp?'

He sighs, takes a drag, bites his lip, 'Happy New Year, Scorp.'

He's so calm as he lies in bed. He wonders whether there is spell so he can see through the ceiling and look at the stars. Maybe he could actually give it a go if he wasn't vibrating with alcohol – and something else entirely.

**_(3_****_rd_****_ January) _**

Malfoy Manor is broken into.

Nothing is taken.

The thieves are sloppy. They set of all the charms and alarms they can. Nothing is taken.

'You think they – '

'I know what they were there for, I thank, I thank everything he wasn't – '

'They wouldn't harm him – '

' – know that! They could, they might, because he wouldn't join – '

' – Draco please, stop pacing, where are you – '

' – have to find somewhere else to fucking live Hermione – we cannot, we cannot remain there.'

'I'm staying with Dad then.' Is Hugo's reply.

'I second that notion, entirely,' Rose agrees.

Hermione Granger looks upon her children and sighs.

'It's only for a short while, and Scorpius is my – '

'We're your children!' Hugo scorns, stamping his foot, crossing his arms. 'Bloody hell Mum, don't we matter?'

She looks at him, his face, so like Ron so unlike herself. She shakes her head. 'I know that, thank-you and don't swear at me. Your friend needs help, and this is far much bigger than anyone can imagine, see of it as more of a safe-house, they are here to be protected.'

'_He's _not our – '

'Protected?' Rose shouts, 'from what? From who he is? Protected from the person he was born to be? Don't you hear what they're saying Mum? Those people aren't out to kill him, they're out to get him to lead them, he doesn't need protecting, he needs giving to them!' She storms away, arms flailing, the door of her bedroom slams.

'Yeah. What she said.' Yells Hugo.


	11. Chapter 11

**_ (5_****_th_****_ January)_**

'Welcome back boy'o.'

Healer Simms stands at the end of his bed. It is Monday.

'Can't say I'm glad.'

'Scorpius.' His father says warningly.

But Simon Simms, just shrugs. 'Me either son, but it is what it is. Now, we start consolidation treatment. Twelve weeks of it. Three days on, four days off. Daunorubicin, cytosine arabinoside, thioguanine.' He stops, 'Two hours per bag, two bags a day, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.'

'What about after that or the rest of the week?'

'Ah, you go home. Recuperate for the coming weeks, because this won't be easy my man.'

Scorpius looks to his father, who stares back, he asks, 'And Dad, where will that be?'

Draco looks away, his jaw tight, 'That is to – be arranged.'

'Worry not,' intervenes Simms, 'if there is no appropriate place, you are welcome to remain here, home might just be a little more comfortable.'

'Dad, can you say Cytosine arabinoside repeatedly, like, ten times faster?'

'No Scorpius.' He rolls his eyes, and tries himself, he says it six times before his father drops his paper in a sigh of, 'not now son.'

'Why not now, when then?' Scorpius raises his eyebrows, or would, if they were there. 'Fuck, I can't even raise my eyebrows, shit.' His fingers run over the bald skin above his eyes.

'The most terrible side effect.' His father raises his own.

'Smart arse, you're showing off, Dad.'

Draco huffs a laugh, just like a strong breath through the nose, like Albus does, the two of them never laugh, not outright, they do it in breathes instead, 'You and Albus would be fucking awful at a comedy show.' He tells him, 'You'd both be like a pair of bulls!' He laughs himself, outright and too loud.

'Me and – why do you say that?'

'Neither of you laugh, ever, not once have I seen you laugh, you know, like properly fucking cackle. Albus either, never, and I know it isn't me, because I can be a funny motherfu – '

'Okay, son, I understand.' Draco rubs his chin, 'I laugh. I do laugh.'

'Yes, like Albus, like a bull, _huffing_.' Scorpius says, 'Hermione laughs all big and nice and everything and she works here, on a children's ward for sick kids and Dad, even she laughs better than you two.'

Draco shakes his head at his son, he says, 'I never thought, in my life, I would ever be compared similar to the child of a Potter, and Weasley at that! Give me strength.'

Scorpius nods his head, 'Fucking weird isn't it, I never thought we'd be here either.'

'I never thought it, son, not in my worst nightmares, not in a million years.' And the mood of the laughter sinks, fast and hard, because cancer rears its fucking ugly head again.

'Don't, Dad, come on, I didn't mean that.' He feels so good after the two bags, almost better than before, cancer. What cancer? Scorpius laughs.

'I know, I know.' Draco says, but he lifts his paper, and they say nothing more.

Hermione arrives for her night shift at 8 o'clock. His father goes home, but Scorpius watches them talk in the corridor from his place on the bed, he isn't being very sly, his neck craning to see through the doors.

Then Albus sits in his chair, entirely blocking the view, 'Al, I'm trying to spy, can't you tell?' He sighs, neck hurting, giving up, he leans back, looks at Albus and groans, 'You brought me soup, again?' But he takes it, thanks him and has a sip, 'what it is, nutty and why the fuck am I drinking it from a straw?'

'Peanut Butter, it's a milkshake not soup, don't you like it?'

He takes a sip, then another, and a gulp, 'It's fucking nice, what's yours?'

'Strawberry.' He looks behind him, 'What were you spying on?'

'Dad and Hermione.'

'Oh, why?'

Scorpius shrugs, 'Just being nosey, there's not much to do from a hospital bed really.'

'We could watch something?' Albus takes more food and milkshakes from his bag. He sets them on his table, which is already crammed with food, drinks and books. 'There are some films here.'

'Muggle ones, you serious?' His eyes shine, 'You really bought some?' Albus sets a stack of them in front of him and Scorpius doesn't even look at the titles.

'Okay, okay, we'll watch them all, come on.'

The couch has been put back to normal. They sit close together on it. Scorpius wonders whether any grieving families use the space for – grief. Or if it's now solely used for the kids on his ward. For watching films, laughing, talking, surely the room need's some brightening occasionally, must do, with all the grief it's held within its walls.

* * *

After all the comedies he feels lighter, happier, like that feeling you get when you've had too much to drink so your inhibitions go out the window. His mind isn't thinking straight, or at all, so he says, 'If I die, will you come here to grieve me?'

And Albus turns to look at him, his face unreadable. 'How can you ask that?' He says eventually.

Scorpius shrugs, 'I was just thinking – about this room. How it's for grieving families, and how we never use it for that, or see it as that. Just got me thinking Al.

'About death?' He says slowly.

'Not death really, but what happens after someone dies.' Scorpius explains, 'After my Mum died, I don't know how I felt, really. There are so many emotions there, you know. The sadness, anger, loss, love, fear – I couldn't contain them or feel them all at once. I just remember crying, crying so much.'

'I can only imagine.' Albus shakes his head, 'I can't even – '

'I'm glad. You don't want to feel it, Al. Like you're raw, stripped bare of everything, yourself, surrounding, fucking life! To explain it – I can't – '

'This room is probably best for our films, then?'

Scorpius looks at him, his vision hazy with unshed tears. He grins – all teeth.

**_(7_****_th_****_ January) _**

He wakes throwing up the yellow (probably banana) milkshake Albus brought him that afternoon. All over himself, because he has no strength to sit up, just to roll over, so he doesn't choke. His eyes cross with the pain, his throat burns, scratches, but it doesn't stop, he's sick sick sick all over, everywhere. When it stops, he's panting and sweating, his body relaxes into the bed, and his cheek falls into his mess.

'Oh, Scorpio.' Hermione cleans him up, he barely registers her there, saying, it's okay, it's alright, don't worry, don't worry. He's too dazed and hot to be embarrassed because she is a nurse and has seen this all before.

In his daze, there are more hands, holding him up, cleaning his own hands, his arms, his face! And he knows that smell beyond the vomit, that touch beyond the cloth, those eyes, those eyes… They move him around and move around him, change the bed, change everything, he barely sees it, but he feels everything and it burns with nothing but shame.

When Hermione, and those hands and those eyes leave him, with whispers to sleep sleep sleep, but he doesn't. He stares up at his name above his head. All blue, even sparkly now, Scorpius Malfoy – Scorpius Malfoy. Someone who vomits on himself and can't seem to even fucking sit up and do it over the side of the bed. Someone who can't use his own hands to wash himself, or change his sheets.

It's depressing he knows, because his own morbidity is depressing him. But in the darkness he can't help it, because this isn't only affecting him but everyone around him, everyone – seeing things they shouldn't ever have to see. He falls asleep eventually, with swollen lips and a wet pillow.

**_(8_****_th_****_ January) _**

He sleeps more than he thought possible. At-least 22 out of 24 hours. His mouth bleeds again. He is sick so much, even in his sleep! He awakes too it. That smell, his throat, his nose, his –

He wakes up to quickly, jolting

'Scorpius!'

He groans, but opens his eyes to the green of Albus who looks back at him with something Scorpius cannot or does not want to understand. He hasn't seen that look before, that solemn look, of something like pain or hurt – or both – he doesn't know – doesn't matter –

'Scorpius, you – is there anything you need?'

I need you to go please, I need you not to touch me like this, not even to see me like this, please. He wants to say, but instead what he says is, 'A film would be good? One of your comedies?'

'We can do that, if you want we can, now.'

Go, leave, stop looking at me, stop it, please, go - 'Maybe tomorrow, let me – '

But he's already asleep.

**_(11_****_th_****_ January)_**

'You go see that fucking _friend _of yours, everyday don't you?'

Albus tenses, looks up at his brother, testing him through narrowed eyes. The two of them are sitting at the dining room table, Albus across from James. He tries to make up for his lost work at Hogwarts, a little of Scorpius' too, not that anyone knows about that. But now he pays no attention to his work, he drops his quill and his hand wraps tightly around the wand sticking out of his pocket as he looks down at his older brother.

'Don't you think it's a bit sad, being in a hospital every single day, mate.' James sniggers, 'You barely know the guy, why bother?'

'He's sick.' Albus says, through his teeth. He stands up, towering over him. 'I go, because he's sick.' He crosses his arms over his broad chest.

'Whatever man,' his face twists in something like disgust and his hands are up, as he stands and begins stepping away, 'don't have a shit fit, I was just saying, there's plenty more to do than waste your life crying by some dude's bed side. Maybe wanna' get a life mate, instead of waiting for this kid to die.'

In three strides he has him, fists in his nice clean expensively starched white shirt, his dark unshaven face in his brothers paler, clean shaven face. Albus' throws him against the kitchen wall, 'The hell you say - what the fuck did you just say?'

James' eyes shine with mockery, with the laughter he isn't even trying to supress, 'Woah, woah,' his shirt is bunched round his neck, his hands held up, his brother laughs, 'didn't mean nothing by it mate, nothing by it.'

Albus lets him go, and James drops to the floor, smoothing out his shirt, he scowls up at his brother, 'Need to know how to chill man, take a fucking joke, seriously.'

His hands are fists, so tight they shake, but he can't hit him, not here, not now, not his brother, so he closes his eyes, and waits for James' retreating feet before he opens them again.

'Where are you going Albus?' Ginny steps out the living room into the hall where Albus is balancing on one foot putting on his shoes.

'The hospital, it's visiting hours.' He says slowly, not looking at her because if he does he knows what he'll see.

Ginny Potter stands in the doorway, hands on her hips. 'Hogwarts is starting again soon, don't you have work to do.'

'I've done everything.' He hasn't, he's done almost nothing and he knows she knows that, as he looks up he meets her cold cold eyes, and lies anyway, 'I can't do much more, I have nothing else to do.'

She sighs, 'Albus, I can't allow it, you are there every-day, every god given hour,' he leans against the wall and watches her face sharpen, 'you go to St Mungo's! That boy you see isn't even family, do you even know him at all?'

I've known him for less than half a year, Albus doesn't say, I don't know if I know all of him, not yet, but that doesn't matter because what I get and what he has given – he sighs. Loosing himself in his mind, he looks back at her, she hasn't moved at all, still waiting for him to answer what he knows she won't ever ask. He just says, 'I have to go.'

And Ginny replies with a shake of her head and gives him her back, she walks away and slams the door.

* * *

Scorpius groans loudly, crudely, with his chin on the rim of the toilet, he hiccups, throws up, his eyes water, it's comes from his nose, he shivers, he burns, he's sick.

Then something – at his side – in the door way, taking up all the light and all the space, twice he's told him not to come in, and now he stands there, watching, like a fucking audience member to the freak show.

'Do you need me – '

'Why are you here? Fuck off.'

Despite what he says, Scorpius knows he needs him, he wants to cling to him and soak in all that strength of his, wants to sooth himself – just resting his cheek against his warm strong shoulder. But more than that – he wants him to just go, because no one should see him like this, spitting out the acid of his stomach into the toilet, missing sometimes, so it runs down his chin, and neck, all this, and bald, bony. No one should have to see anyone like this, yet Albus won't even turn his head!

'Can you go, can you just go – please!'

But Albus does the opposite, he comes into the bathroom, all big and strong and dark and infuriating. All intrusive and unwelcome. 'Let me – '

'NO!' He yells, he never yells, and it makes his pale cheeks blush, 'I don't want you here, not now, please go.' His teeth chatter, but he wasn't so cold as burning hot. 'Go!'

'Scorpius – '

'I said go, Al, what don't you fucking understand, huh?'

'I won't – '

'Oh, you won't – 'he mumbles it into the toilet as he's sick again, 'Oh, you won't. Just – won't.'

'No, no.'

And he tries to reply but a hand comes to the back of his neck, squeezes, hot and heavy, and he drops his head into the bowl and vomits, once – twice – he trembles with the force of it, he spits, rubs his watering eyes. But he doesn't feel any of it, just that unrelenting hand, stroking him.

When he breathes again, when his heart comes down from his ears, he says, 'You shouldn't see – you should never have to – '

But that hand squeezes his neck, and he shuts up, he closes his eyes. Then he is moving, a motion of going back back back, the toilet flushes, something warm, so fucking warm around him, all around, so nice, so good, he floats in it, that warmth, rising rising from his toilet, from his vomit and his sickness, from himself he rises! Into that all-encompassing warmth.

By the time he gets back there are no lights on in the house, but he can hear Ginny shouting from her room upstairs.

'He has _school _to worry about Harry, is he even fucking thinking about his _education!' _

'I don't know, sweetie.' Harry replies, his voice is slurred from alcohol. 'He doesn't seem to be thinking at all.'

'No, see, exactly! I told him, I asked him where he was off too. I told him not to go! And he went regardless. Where is the respect in that Harry?'

'Is this really about respect?' His father says, 'Gin, I think it's about far more than the boys lack of decency towards his family.'

'Oh, you get so caught up in your theories Harry Potter!'

'Theories,' Harry Potter laughs, 'my dear, you are old, but not so old. I hold no theories, only fact.'

' – he almost hit his brother, the other day, in my kitchen! He very nearly hooked James in the face and let's not even mention Christmas.'

Albus keeps the door open, as he listens. Not making a sound. Harry replies, 'I'd like to see it if he _had. _The boy would stand no chance against his brother.'

'He has no respect for anyone in this family Harry! How dare he abandon us for some _friend _and treat us so disgustingly during the small space of time we catch a glimpse of him. Selfish boy. He was never raised to be so selfish.'

Albus can't hear anymore without shouting up his own argument. So, he steps back out into the night, locks the door and walks to the high street.

They live in Surrey. Miles away from his father's childhood home in Little Whinging in a market town called Epsom. Albus walks into the centre of the town, where, even for a Wednesday it is busy. The town is muggle. Because his father couldn't handle the continuous reporters outside of their first house in Godric's Hollow. When Albus was seven they moved into the town. Here they blended in just nicely, the secret magical folk.

He sits on a bench and takes out his mobile device.

Albus (11.12pm): It's no use going back to yesterday...

They never discussed it. But when they didn't know what to say, or how to say it. They would send a quote instead. Other people's words were better than their own sometimes. Especially times like this, where Albus wouldn't know what to say if he tried.

Scorpius doesn't reply. Then something makes his back cold. He turns to see a plaque on the back of the bench, in shining copper, it reads, - For Scott, who lived each day as his last – May he Rest in Peace -

He reads the words over and over. Then stands up, as if shocked from the seat. He thinks of the conversation he and Scorpius had the day before. About death and dying. Is this what happens after death in the muggle world? People bought benches and etched their loved one's names into the wood, or maybe the man's ashes were here too.

He takes a step back.

No, he didn't want to think – he wouldn't allow himself –

The clock on his mobile reads that it's too late for St Mungo's now. Hermione isn't working, and the other Medi-Witches never allow him to stay in the ward outside of visiting hours, he tried sneaking passed them before with no luck.

No. There's nowhere he can go but here.

A Mexican cocktail bar is thriving. There's a birthday party inside. The name of it flashes bright: Los Amigos. He goes inside. The place is hot, full of happiness and people, laughing, chatting. Albus sits on a stool at the bar, he orders a whiskey.

'On the rocks?' The barmaid asks.

'On the – what?'

She's a small thing, the barmaid, he decides as he looks down at her over the bar. Small but probably fierce, since her hair is coloured blue. A shock of colour. Otherwise she's all compact and petite. There's something in her blue eyes which should draw him in. Her mouth is pink, round, lovely, same as her entire face, so lovely. But he feels nothing.

'The rocks,' her voice is deep, husky, 'mean's you want ice with it?'

'Ah,' he says, eyeing the liquid as she pours it, 'no, thank you.'

'And you're very welcome.' He takes it from her, in two gulps it is gone. Her eyes widen at him, she says, 'Want another, big man?'

Albus twirls the glass with his finger, 'Yeah, please, a double?'

'You swig it that fast and now you want a double?' She bites those lovely lips, 'Had a bad day huh?'

'Thirsty.'

She looks at him incredulously, 'Bollocks! If you were thirsty, you'd order a juice, or some shit.' She wipes down the bar, before snapping the cloth on his arms, 'You ain't thirsty, just sad, or lonely, or broken-hearted.' More whiskey is poured into his glass, 'we've all been there honey, just ride the shitty wave, hopefully you'll come out better on the other side.'

Albus drinks, 'You think so?' He finds himself saying, 'You really think so?'

She laughs, 'Hell, big man, I don't know! You could be well up shits creek with no way out. I'm just here to supply the poison to help you through.'

'Poison.' The word alone makes him order more whiskey. Which he takes, drinks and asks for more. He doesn't know what time he leaves, or how. Where he sleeps is beyond him. But the feeling of such weightlessness, such freedom is paralyzingly wonderful. He craves it again as soon as he wakes.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry for the delay - life is - life _

* * *

**_CHAPTER 12_**

**_(17 January) _**

Scorpius is crying.

Albus sits on the edge of the bed, but his small hands push him away.

'Before you ask, no, there's nothing you can do.'

'What happened,' he says instead, 'did something happen?'

'You smell bad. And no, nothing has happened.'

'You're crying because I smell bad?' He goes for humour, 'really?' Scorpius rolls his eyes, but a bubble of laughter comes out, Albus smiles at him, 'That's really offensive.'

'Like you've bathed in a brewery.' He wipes at his eyes, 'fuck, do you have a tissue?'

Albus moves closer again and uses the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe Scorpius' eyes. When he pulls away his cheeks are flushed. Albus moves back to his chair. 'Sorry, about the smell.'

'Better than hospital magical spells. Or my own sick.' Scorpius sniffs, 'thank-you for the food, milkshakes, and everything.'

'You want some?' Today he's brought bubblegum, but the blue looks sickly even to him. Scorpius shakes his head.

'No, the blue looks toxic.'

'It does.' He takes a sip, 'tastes nice though,' he holds it to him, 'are you sure?'

Scorpius lays down, away. 'I'm sure, thank you.'

But he's so thin under the hospital clothes. He brings sandwiches, cake, meat, cheese, chips, sweets, chocolate and Scorpius doesn't touch it. It piles around him in clusters of untouched food. Albus almost wants to beg, just a little, he wants to say, please, please, please, he wants to say even more.

'Just a bad day.' Scorpius is saying through his thoughts, 'I'm sorry for being such a – dweeb about it. But some-days - '

Albus gapes at him, openly, to say, look how stupid you're sounding! You're the strongest man I have ever known! But Scorpius would only scoff if he said so, so instead he says, 'Dweeb?'

'Yeah, me, a fucking d-weeb. All crying, soppy and shit.'

'You have every right to feel and show emotion Scorpius. Everyone does.'

He scoffs, (Albus sighs) 'Emotion, right.'

'You do. Cry all you want too.' He sips on the bubblegum milkshake, just for something to do with his hands, which long to reach over maybe, in comfort.

'We aren't supposed to cry.' Scorpius says quietly, 'Not around people anyway.'

'We?'

'Us, boys, men, guys, dudes. Us.'

He pauses, watching Scorpius. Tear lines marring his cheeks. No hair on his head, or brows, or lashes. He drowns in the white linen, almost as white as his sheets. So sunken, sick, small. And Albus watches him in awe of how he can think that. That he, just because he is a man, can't show emotion over something so awful, over anything. Albus, he shakes his head, 'Scorp, that's not true.'

Now Scorpius pauses, then smiles but only briefly, then he says, 'We can't. No way. Men are the stronger ones, we must be tough through everything, even shitty little things like cancer. How much of a man am I if I lie here all day, crying like a little bitch?'

'Why do you suddenly care how much of a man you are?' Albus wonders, 'And crying doesn't make you any less of a man, whatever that even means. It's a human emotion, not something weak, Scorpius. Men can be strong, course, and woman too, and whoever, everyone can be strong, and crying doesn't make anyone less male, or female, or anything, it's just a human reaction.'

'I've never heard you speak so much.' He's grinning, sitting up in the bed, 'Honestly, I haven't.'

'No?'

'Hell no! That was practically a monologue.'

'It was?'

He laughs, 'Okay, shut up now.' He reaches over and takes the milkshake from him, 'man I never thought I'd say that to you, Al.'

'Me either.'

'Feels like our roles have reversed,' His tongue pokes out to play with the straw, he always does that, and Albus always tries to look away, but never can.

He blinks, 'Really?'

'Mmmhmm,' he sucks on his straw, 'different definitely from how we were when we met.'

Albus just nods. His eyes unfocused.

'Because I was a different person then.'

He winks.

* * *

**_(20_****_th_****_ January) _**

Hogwarts re-opens.

Albus boards the train with his sister and cousins. Rose tugs Lily away before he can ask her to share a compartment. He walks the length of the train twice before finding an empty one. He sits against the window and takes out a small hip flask. A Christmas present from his father, as if the man knew of his son's sudden affliction, though Albus doubts it. He sips until he falls asleep, placated, aching, into oblivion.

* * *

**_(28_****_th_****_ January) _**

'Iris and Eli are home. They both started remission, that means no cancer, since I was last here. I'm almost there, just a little precautionary stay before I get to go home.' Graciela returns with a little hair and brighter eyes. She shakes when speaking and picks at her nails, and her eyes remain downward as she speaks, but she's speaking. 'I use the wheelchair to get around, but I walk a little.'

'That's great Gracie, and I love the pink wheels.'

She looks at him, smiles, nods. She's very beautiful, her skin the colour of honey, her eyes a deep navy.

'Do you want to watch one of your films?'

His father wheels him, her father wheels her into the family room. Where they sit, in their separate chairs and watch Pride and Prejudice three times and Scorpius squeezes her small cold hand when she cries.

When she leaves he lies in his bed, just still, because something doesn't feel right.

Swallowing is difficult. Since that blue milkshake. Maybe it really was toxic. It scares him, panics him, he gulps and gulps trying to rid whatever is lodged in his throat.

But then his father comes in, and Scorpius tries to calm his nerves. He holds out a chicken sandwich.

'I've eaten already, thanks though Dad.'

Draco gives him a look that he obviously doesn't believe him and nudges the sandwich into his hands. Scorpius drops it onto the bed.

'Eat it, Scorpius.' His father frowns, 'It's only a sandwich.'

Gulp. Gulp. It's like a piece of meat lodged in his windpipe. Like the chicken poking out of the bread.

His palms drip in sweat.

'Dad, please, not now.'

But his father isn't having it, his eyes are fierce, determined as he thrusts the fucking sandwich into his hands. His face is so pained and so close, Scorpius can't bring himself to drop it.

'Just take a few bites, son.'

A few bites? When did that sentence start sounding so monumental? A few small bites of chicken and mayonnaise. You can do it. You can do it.

He swallows.

Still there.

He stares at the sandwich until his eyes water.

'Scorpius – '

Swallow, swallow, swallow, 'there's something – 'its blocking his airways, how can he eat, how can he breathe? Oh my – oh – he sweats into the sheets, what's happening? His heart, his heart is racing, his body vibrating with it, something beeps too loudly beside him. 'What's happening – '

'Scorpius – Scorpi – '

He coughs.

It bursts, blood filling his throat instantly. Cough cough coughhh – makes it rise until streams of it are thrown from his mouth.

It pours out of him like water from a broken tap.

He hears his father shouting, but all he can do is hang his head and let it pour out of his mouth.

* * *

**_(30_****_th_****_ January) _**

Albus comes at night. After his lessons, after his life, he comes and sits with Scorpius. He sits in the big purple chair at his bedside still like the audience to Scorpius' relentless freak show. He comes with food, with pens, with books and films. With a face, so haunted, so powerful, that Scorpius' gut just aches when he walks in. As his dry throat closes, his eyes water, his nose, mouth bleeds, and Albus, his face so close, wipes it, he doesn't allow himself to turn away, because he's sick, because he's selfish.

Tonight, they're reading a history textbook. Scorpius doesn't want to fall behind on his studies, so Albus pens his homework whilst he offers the answers.

'Who purposed the idea of filtering selection into Hogwarts through Blood Status?' Albus offers.

'Salazar Slytherin,' he replies, 'or as I call him, Great-grandad.' He laughs.

Albus shakes his head, 'Stop it.'

'Like you don't want to laugh.' He says, 'It was a good one, come on.'

'It was a good one.' Albus replies, but he still looks all glum about it, so Scorpius nudges his shoulder. Albus looks up.

'The fuck else do I have to laugh about? Do you want to hear a cancer joke?'

'No.' He replies sharply, the papers in his hands shake, 'I don't.'

* * *

They watch the television and Scorpius' legs find their way across Albus'. He can't help but look at them, like two white peices of driftwood with blue and black bruises up and down. Merlin, he has to sit on his hands to avoid touching them. He'd grip them too tightly (he knows) and he's cause him more pain. But they look so sore and mottled and remind Albus that Scorpius' blood is trying to kill him.

That makes him want to drag him into his lap and hide him away from the universe they're in.

Universe.

Maybe in another universe this isn't happening, maybe they are just friends, or more, and their lives are simple, uncomplicated by vermin like cancer.

He sighs, shaking his head to rid himself of his thoughts. Because this is the only universe he's (they're) getting.

Scorpius nudges his arm. 'Are you even watching this?'

It's Sense and Sensibility, he isn't really watching it, no.

'I am.' He tells him, smiling, just thinking.

'Don't think too hard,' Scorpius wiggles his legs, 'you'll have a nose bleed.'

'Ha. Ha.' Albus flicks him.

He laughs, all loud and lovely. 'But I'm sorry if you're bored, Al. We can watch something else, or do something else?'

Scorpius could barely walk from his bed to the sofa, 'Scorpio, I'm perfectly fine here, honestly.'

His eyes are big and round and concerned, he bites his already chapped lips and looks away, back at their film, 'If you're sure, if you're really sure because I know this place is - '

Albus puts his sweaty hand on his knee and squeezes, 'Seriously, I'm fine.'

'As long as you're sure.'

He was, undenably.

* * *

**_(2_****_nd_****_ February) _**

'The house – again – '

Hermione rubs his shoulders, his neck, his pale drawn face, 'Again? Oh Draco, the third time in two weeks!'

'They took his baby photos, his photo's! Nothing else, what are they – ' He stops, slumps forward into her chest, Hermione runs her trembling fingers through his hair.

'Draco, Draco, please, don't worry, my house, I've told you before, please come, he'll be safe and we can – '

'I'm doing it for him, only him.'

'I know that, I know that.'

Scorpius arrives at Hermione's house from the hospital and bathes for three hours. His father, worries, knocks on the door every twenty minutes until Hermione insists he is okay and drags his father away in hushes. He lays in the soft bubbles and momentarily rejoices at how beautiful it feels. He stays there until his body is shrivelled and the water cold. Then his father levitates him up into a sparse, warm, room on the third floor of Hermione's cottage. He lies on the bed, unmoving and reads his diary.

_Scorpius Malfoy Bucket List: _

_[In no particular order] _

_fly a broom – well _

_write a poem _

_watch a muggle television_

_watch a muggle film_

_write a novel_

_drink alcohol until I am sick _

_fly on a muggle aeroplane _

_get a tattoo _

_find a friend __– Albus Potter_

_shave my hair _

_give and receive a meaningful hug _

_hold someone's hand _

_hold them_

_kiss them _

_find someone _

_find myself _

_eat chocolate cake _

_get married _

_have children _

_see the world _

_fall in love _

His tears make the ink stream down the page. But he doesn't care, let it wash away he thinks, let my dreams run away, because they'll never be fulfilled, I'll never see them, I won't get my future. He closes the diary, holds his wand over it in a shaking hand. But it falls, exhausted with the effort, and he sleeps.

* * *

**_(10_****_th_****_ February) _**

'Malfoy still not back?'

'No.'

Albus' head throbs, his fingers tremble. Yann is too close, too loud.

'He dead or some shit?'

He stands up, leans back, the force of the punch shocks him. Yann falls to the ground, nose twisted, cheek scraped. He stands over him as the man holds his nose on the floor, he thinks about saying something, but doesn't, then walks away.

**_(13_****_th_****_ February) _**

'You got a month's detention!'

'Have some soup.'

'What? Fuck, I don't want soup, I want to hear about your _month _detention!'

He still can't sit up. The tube in his chest is infected. The bags of poison are drip dripping into his heart and making his body old and grey and no use. But Albus is here now, has been all morning and Scorpius knew he was keeping something in, his face was all contorted and he kept going to say something before stopping or changing the subject but mainly trying to force his relentless soup at him. Scorpius just waited, smiling at his feeble attempts to tell him, but now he had and now he knows and – a month's detention! Shit!

'Please, then I will tell you.'

Sighing in defeat, he lets Albus lifts his head and gives him the fat chicken soup, spooning it into his mouth. And he manages to keep down, somehow!

'I hit Yann Fredericks.' Says Albus.

'You hit Yann Fredericks! Ha!' He laughs, coughs, and Albus shakes his head.

'Don't look at me like that, Smokey, you cough more than I do.' Scorpius laughs when Albus rolls his eyes, but he says, 'Go on, why did you hit him?'

'He deserved it.' He replies slowly, leaving no room for expansion or detail.

'I can believe that, Al.' Scorpius pushes the soup away, 'But you're being all vague, what did he do? I know Yann's an arse but it isn't in your nature to go around knocking people out, man.' He hopes Albus doesn't call him out on exactly how he would know what was exactly is in the other man's nature, because really Scorpius wouldn't know whether it was, not really, but something tells him it just isn't, at all, in the short time they've known each-other.

Albus shuffles in his chair, 'Doesn't matter Scorp, don't worry about it.'

Before he can reply, Hermione walks in, says something to Albus that Scorpius can't hear because his ears are engulfed by nothing but green eyes and that deep voice whispering, Scorp, Scorp, Scorp, and he must roll over so they can't see his broadening smile.


	13. Chapter 13

'He's staying with me.'

It's late, the middle of the night. Hermione sits in what was Iris' purple chair, facing him, Albus sits on the floor against Scorpius' bed, he is drawing.

'Sorry?'

She looks up in the low light, 'Scorpius and his father are staying at my house temporarily. Malfoy Manor has become a hot bed for thieves since he's been here.'

'Okay.'

She clears her throat, 'You are welcome there any time Albus. Please know that.'

He looks at her, his wonderful aunt. And nods his head in thank you.

'He's your friend.' She says.

He nods again, looking away.

'He's an amazing young man.'

'He is.' He presses his charcoal too hard against the paper, it smudges, but he just carries on because if he doesn't stay focused he'll look at her and she'll know.

'So are you Albus.'

He draws, he draws, he draws. He feels her warm hand on his shoulder, and for some reason he looks up.

Her eyes are kind, 'You are, you don't think it, and I can't help that, but please know, you are so wonderful, so strong, so talented, brave, after everything – I am so proud of you, how you care for him, how you – please understand, you're just as wonderful Albus.'

He draws, he draws, he draws. He nods, shakes his head, feels her kiss his hair, he draws, he draws, he draws. Then looks at his work, and throws it away.

* * *

**_(20_****_th_****_ February) _**

Scorpius sits on Hermione's bright red threadbare settee. Layered in blankets, he watches her own television set. She introduced him to the maze of muggle television channels. He watches something called property programmes until his eyes close. Today he watches a baking show despite his unholy desire not to eat.

The door-bell rings.

Hermione answers it, in her pyjama's and fluffy slippers. Her hair atop her head in a bun, it's her day off, his fathers too. They've been doing nothing all morning.

Albus walks in. He's wearing dark jeans, a grey t-shirt and a black jacket. His hair is long, short curls in his face, the rest held back with an elastic band. He has so many freckles on his face Scorpius wonders whether he's missed a (very) early summer, his eyes are red, they're always red. Red and Green.

'Hello Albus!' Hermione grins, then hugs him and Scorpius gapes at them. Albus visibly tenses at the affection, his rigid arms go around his aunt, then let go. His face is paler when he sits down.

There is whispering behind them but Hermione ushers his father from the room.

He points to the television set, 'I'm just watching this, I don't want to eat it.'

'No?'

Scorpius scoffs, 'No, all that butter? No, Al.'

'It would help.' He says it quietly, probably knowing the reply.

Scorpius groans, 'Anything would help according to you. There's a programme I saw yesterday, a man literally ate a bull's balls. Would _that _help? Or perhaps the blended cockroach smoothie he drank. Forget strawberry, banana, I'll have blended balls and cockroach shall I?'

'It might help.' Albus nods, 'Any food would help.'

He knows that it just isn't worth the argument so Scorpius lets it go. 'Did you bring me thirty thousand milkshakes again?'

'Stop being funny.'

He sticks out his tongue at him, 'What? Funny? Who's being funny? I'm only asking.'

Albus leans closer, his big shoulder rubbing against Scorpius'. He's so warm that Scorpius closes his eyes and groans, he presses against him from shoulder to knee. He suddenly feels exhausted, but in the best of ways, as if all the tension in his coiled body has relaxed, his head drops to the side, his eyes closing.

'Are you falling asleep?' A breath, a hot hand on his frozen shoulder, 'Scorpius?'

His eyes open slowly, and his face is right there, it makes him pause, just to look at him in this proximity, at his wonderful face, his sharp features, slightly bumped nose, cheeks bones, scattered with freckles, so warm, he looks so warm. Those (red) green eyes widen, 'Scorpius?'

He blinks, pulls back, shakes his head, 'Al, sorry, I'm tired.'

'Yeah,' he leans away, the heat of him gone, 'I can go.'

Scorpius' hand shoots out, tugs his shoulder back towards him, 'I don't want you to go.'

To that Albus leans closer again and he says, 'Okay.'

* * *

**_(27_****_th_****_ February) _**

Albus goes to the hospital Monday through Wednesday, then Hermione's Thursday through Sunday.

He leaves late each night and enters the Hogwarts kitchen. The elves are more than happy to get him food and so, with them distracted he steals a bottle of their finest alcohol and takes it to the Astronomy Tower where he lies against the cool stone and drinks, drinks, sometimes he draws, but he throws them all away. Sometimes he dreams, of his memories, of a small pale man in clothes too big, taking his final breath and when those black images find him, he throws up the contents of his stomach and feels nothing but guilt. He aches ever more for the shard of glass tucked neatly away in his draws.

Then it is Monday and he wishes for nothing less.

When he can, Scorpius roams around Hermione's house.

He isn't snooping, but what she has is so interesting.

In some draws in his room there are piles and piles of nail paint. Or 'polish' it says on the bottle. There are so many bright colours.

In other draws he finds what he knows is makeup. So many girls at Hogwarts wear it.

Every-time he is able, he takes it all out and spreads it out on the floor and just looks.

Is it normal?

Is _he _normal?

The bad blood he's full of, is it infecting his brain and that's why all of these things look so appealing. Is that why his hands itch to just take one, and try it out.

It takes him a week to paint one had red, but then he's sweating so much, it's practically gone by morning.

* * *

**_(1_****_st_****_ March) _**

Albus comes with his milkshakes and films, Scorpius doesn't ask where he gets them from or how, he's just happy he brings them. When he sits beside him on the settee Scorpius throws the blankets over him too, as has become their routine. His feet are cold and curled beside him. Part way through their latest film, _Titanic, _as Rose bids farewell to Jack thrusting him into the dark ocean, Scorpius sniffing back tears, feels a big hand on his ankle, a thumb smoothing over the sharp bump of the bone, then a squeeze, and he cries, but muffles it against the blanket, and says it's all the film.

He drinks the chocolate milkshake and Scorpius tries not to watch him do it. He feels so hot and his already high heart rate is pulsing. Thank merlin his father and Hermione are shopping. He sits on his hands as not to show how damp they are.

Albus looks up at him from across the table, 'What?'

'No, nothing - '

'Do you want some?' He pushes it towards him.

'No, no thankyou, I'm sure it tastes lovely but - eating isn't high on my agenda.'

'I know that's why - '

'Can we talk about something else?'

'It's important - '

'I'm going to fall asleep if you carry on, or throw you out.'

He smiles, 'Throw me out?'

'Yeah,' he gives him the milkshake back, 'throw you over my shoulder - '

Now he laughs, 'Okay, sorry, I'll stop.'

Scorpius rolls his eyes, puts his feet up on the chair, 'Are you bored?' He wonders.

Albus frowns, 'No, not at all, why?'

He shrugs, how can he not be? He's been here all day, just sitting, talking, in silence, doing nothing. 'We haven't done anything.'

'So?' He says, 'Is there something you want to do?'

'Sleep?' He tells him, 'But all I ever do is sleep.'

'You can, if you're tired - I can - ' He stands up, looking flustered suddenly and bins his milkshake. 'Sorry, I didn't realise the time.'

'Albus, I didn't mean for you to go.' He tells him, sighing, wanting to stand up and stop him but lacking any energy to merely lift his eyes. 'I told you before I didn't want you to go. I'll just stew otherwise, please.' He taps the chair with his bare foot, 'please sit down again.'

'Stew?' Albus wonders, leaning his hands on the table, 'You'll what?'

'I'll get all worried and anxious and start measuring my breathing rate and - '

'Scorp, don't do that.' Now he sits and slowly wraps a hand around Scorpius' ankle. 'That can't do anything good.'

'I know,' he does, doesn't stop him from falling asleep with a finger on his pulse, 'I know, it's just all part of it, maybe, I guess, the worrying.'

'Don't be worrying.' He says, 'Please try not too.'

'I do, I will, I'm sorry,' he takes his foot away, 'don't worry either.'

Albus just shakes his head at that.

* * *

**_(7th March) _**

Scorpius is sinking his knee's over the side of his bed. Albus transfigures a bucket and when it starts to fill he magics the mess away. Scorpius doesn't say anything to him. Not when he does that. Or when he asks about the music he's been listening too, or when he handles his trembling body back under the covers.

'Want me to stay?'

Scorpius shakes his head, then turns towards the wall, away from him.

* * *

**_(10_****_th_****_ March) _**

'The hospital says you're almost there.' His father beams. So, Scorpius smiles at him, sucking back the blood from his gums and gulping it down his throat.

'You've done so bloody good, Scorpio!' Hermione rubs his cheeks.

But it takes its toll. His bones of a body fall under the strain of the poison. His eyes blur, his ears muffle sound, he bleeds from everywhere he can. He sags at life – it gives up – out -

Hermione carries him to the bath then leaves him to make lunch. He strips, then slides from the toilet into the tub. Just lies there, in the heat, then his nose bleeds and it won't stop. The water turns pink. He reaches for a towel, but no, it's too far away, if he could only stand. So, he tries, but his arms are weak, but he stands, on legs of water, and reaches, but slips, and his torso falls out of the tub, followed by his legs, and his brittle bones crack and his nose bleeds bleeds bleeds onto the floor. He can't move but really, he doesn't try, instead he cries into the bathroom tiles.

His father finds him, wraps a towel around him, and carries him to bed. Where Scorpius feels as if his soul has left his body and is looking over at him and laughing. Like a dark cloud it hangs over his bald head and everyone that comes near gets struck by the lightening it produces.

Draco Malfoy kisses his head, when he pulls away Scorpius sees the grey of his father's eyes, but only just because they sparkle with unshed tears he isn't supposed to see. Hermione, the nurturer, the medi-witch, ever the carer comes to him, with food, drink and spells to stop the pain but not the blood because strangely, there are no spells to stop nose bleeds. She doesn't say anything and neither does he. They just linger in the silence, his father breathes heavily outside the door, then he leaves and Scorpius hears crashes down stairs before Hermione leaves in a rush. He closes his eyes.

* * *

Albus comes that night but from his bed Scorpius tells Hermione to make him go and not let him come in. His eyes stay closed because he doesn't want to see him, if he does, he'll make him stay and he can't see that fear in Albus' eyes either. Can't have the cloud over his head darken Albus too, he doesn't need or deserve it.

'He isn't feeling up to it today.' He hears Hermione say outside of his door. 'I'm sorry, it isn't a good day.'

He shivers when he hears his voice, he protests, before saying, defeated, 'Could I leave these?'

Then she comes into his room moments later and Scorpius' eyes are still closed.

'Oh Scorp.'

Hermione sits beside his bed, touches his forehead which makes him open his eyes. She holds a drawing of a serpent, it's green but the tips of its scales are silver, so silver they shimmer. It is exactly like his other, the one he saw, when he was that other person, that stronger person – he tells Hermione he doesn't deserve to see it, to take it away. But she shakes her head and sticks it on his wall. Scorpius turns his back to it.

* * *

**_(15_****_th_****_ March)_**

It is relatively well known within certain circles that every Saturday at around 12 until 2am Lysander Scamander sells his produce near the snowy owl's nest in a drafty corner of the school's Owlery. His twin brother, in sixth year decided to hand out leaflets to those in the know, one of whom was his own brother James, and thus, Albus had bought himself some of the produce years ago, he didn't know whether it was fresh, but he had a good idea how to use it.

He empties a cigarette and fills it with half of the packet he buys, thirty galleons, he lights it and leans against the stone, which is usually so cold, now warm. He draws with his usual charcoal; his hands are black but the pages are full. Then he looks at what he's drawn and singes them with his wand as usual.

Because he isn't worth that, he doesn't deserve that. Not that. Not him. He's just as cancerous just as big and fat and no good. He takes another inhale, breathes the sweet smoke in. It clears his mind slowly, ebbing away images of what he needs but doesn't deserve. Four more times he visited the house that week and each time he was turned away, but left something, ridiculous as it is he left the only drawings he saved, the milkshakes and his films. But he never left the front door because the father, the carer shook their heads with a no, no, sorry, not today. At the hospital, he sees Simms who takes the food, the drinks and says, oh yes, he'll take them in but oh, no, you can't come in, not today.

His mobile phone device lays in his room unused, silent. And the sweet smoke and whiskey feel like his own poison on his lips. Sinking into his veins, it allows him to sail away.


	14. Chapter 14

**_(19_****_th_****_ March)_**

He's being ridiculous he knows it; he's just hurting himself more by turning him away. How can he have the energy to be self-conscious? Somehow, he does, he did. Because his friend shouldn't have to cope with the idiosyncrasies of a sick man, a sick friend, who can only just type him a reply, who sometimes doesn't even open his eyes when he comes to visit.

But now he's selfish again, and he misses his friend. If Albus wants to be here he can, it's his decision. Or so he tells himself. As he looks in the mirror of the bathroom, he looks childlike, skeletal, all pale everything. Sunken sockets and skin. Maybe the cancer will kill him eventually, and why should he suffer if his proverbial clock is tick-tocking away, why should he rid himself of Albus Potter? Who gives him so much by doing so little without ever knowing it.

It's only been a few days, a week? But Scorpius messages him anyway, his sorry's, his explanation, he stares at the screen, unblinking, all night.

* * *

**_(20_****_th_****_ March) _**

Scorpius (9.18am): Thank you for the pictures you sent. They are so good, I've kept some in my pillow, I hope you don't think that's weird. But there's no room on the wall anymore with all of your drawings and even my shitty ones which Hermione won't let me take down.

Scorpius (9.30am): Sorry I didn't say it earlier. Sorry I didn't say a lot earlier. I hope nothing's happened and you're doing okay. I'm as bald as ever! Hope you're – not.

Scorpius (9.36am): Sorry I didn't see you the other week, it was a bad time. But I already told you that. Don't be mad. Or try not to be at-least.

Scorpius (9.43am): I hope you are doing okay. Not much is happening here. I'm on my bags and then I sleep. Titanic was on the television yesterday. I didn't watch it.

* * *

**_(21_****_st_****_ March) _**

Scorpius (12.19am): I managed some soup again today. It looked as fucking disgusting as that stuff you brought, all orange and lumpy. But I ate it and kept it down! Hermione said it's because I'm that hungry my stomach will eat itself if it doesn't take in some nutrients. How fucked up is that Al! I'm starting to eat myself. Holy shit!

Scorpius (6.12am): I can't sleep. When I don't have that shitty poison, I can't sleep. Isn't that weird Al? The poison helps me a little. Just a bit. Even though it's almost entirely destructive. I can't sleep without it.

* * *

**_(22_****_nd _****_March) _**

Scorpius (11.14am): I caught Hermione and Dad holding hands earlier. Well, I don't know if caught is the correct word. I saw them. Because they weren't trying to hide it or anything. They were just doing it right there in the corridor.

Scorpius (2.16pm): I've hung the snake behind me, right in the middle of all the other stuff, mainly my own shit. It looks pretty fucking cool below my stupid floating names. Shows I'm a Slytherin, eh? Wonder what Iris would think of that. Ha!

* * *

**_(23_****_rd_****_ March) _**

Scorpius (3.03pm): Not a gd day 2day Al. My tube is infectd again. I have a bad cold too. Just a little. Something in my lungs apprntly. I'm so srry for not seeing u, I wish -

* * *

**_(27_****_th_****_ March)_**

Scorpius (2.11am): Where ever you are I hp you r okay.

* * *

**_(30_****_th_****_ March) _**

'You have been absent from the school for over two weeks.' McGonagall sits in the head-masters chair as if it was entirely created for her. 'And I can't say you return to us with any sort of appropriate – appearance.' He stares down at his bruised knuckles, at his torn jeans, her eager eyes follow his gaze, 'Mmm, precisely my point Mister Potter.' She waits for a reply, but upon his silence she continues, 'Your academic scores have been failing dramatically these past months, since Christmas, in most subjects, bar one, you have gone from either O or E to T. Yes, T.' She again expects a reply and receives none. 'I have been informed of your friend's situation Mister Potter, and I can understand it. But that does not explain such a dramatic decrease nor your apparent absence.'

He looks around the room at the previous headmasters, his two namesakes hang behind McGonagall side by side, two men, both dedicated their lives to his father. He scowls, looks away. McGonagall is talking, but he isn't listening, he is shaking.

'Where _have_ you _been?_' Hermione's eyes are not dissimilar to the unrelenting disgust of McGonagall's.

His hands are still trembling and he knows he shouldn't be here. He should never have come back. He says nothing, not trusting his tongue. Trusting nothing.

'I just – '

'Just nothing Albus. You look fucking disgraceful.' It's the first time he's ever heard her swear, 'Have you showered? What is that on your hand? Why is it swollen, what have you done? Is that blood on your head? Albus! What do you think you are doing?' Her small hands clutch his jumper, she's in his face, his wonderful aunt, staring at him with something that looks a little like fear. 'What happened, what changed, I thought – I thought – '

But Draco Malfoy walks in before she can say what he knows she will and he hits him on the jaw so hard, that it momentarily clicks out of place. It makes him bite his tongue and spit blood. The next blow he expects but does nothing to block. It opens the crusting wound on his head. He lands four more punches until Hermione manages to drag him away.

'Draco, Draco, sweetheart, _please.' _He shrugs her away, and shoves Albus into the wall. His face inches away,

'You – argh! – fuck! – you bastard, do you have any – you have no idea.' He shoves him again, and Albus expects another punch, welcomes it, but Hermione pulls Draco away before it comes and drags him out of the door.

Albus rubs his fingers through his hair, blood staining his hands, and sits on the floor.

Hermione comes back. 'He's very sick. He just went to the shops. Someone sneezed, coughed in his direction, whatever, he caught pneumonia – a disease in the lungs, not serious, not to a healthy person, but deadly to those with a low immune system, or none at all, like him. He was transported here two days ago, emergency, he barely had a pulse.'

His bloody hands cover his ears, he hangs his shaking head. But Hermione kneels down, removes them and continues,

'All his vitals were down, he wasn't breathing, for a while, but we stabilised that, but his pulse remains low, there, but low.'

She finds his trembling hands and pulls him to his feet. Pinches his chin sharply to make him look down at her. 'He's very sick Albus, you should have been here, like you were, every day, you should have been here.' He almost collapses under the weight of it all. Hermione looks at him sternly, 'Pull yourself the fuck together Albus, and go out there and apologise until you are blue in the fucking face, I don't care if he doesn't hear you, because that boy deserves your apology. I don't care right now what demons are tormenting you, he needs you, he's so sick and he needs you.'

It all feels like one giant sleep. But when he opens his eyes a fraction he sees his father by his side. His blonde head on the bed. Hermione is rubbing his back. There is so much anguish in their gazes that he closes his eyes again.

He opens them – an hour, a day, a month, a year, thirty years later. His father remains, a remarkable look on his face, then there is Albus! Albus! Who sits in his purple chair with a bruised face, his hands visibly shaking. Scorpius opens his eyes fully and waits for his to catch them. When he does he holds out his hand for him to take. Albus takes it in both of his and puts them to his forehead. Scorpius then looks to his father and extends his other hand. His father takes it softly and squeezes. Then he falls again.

* * *

**_(10_****_th_****_ April)_**

Suspended from Hogwarts, Albus has nowhere to stay, so he sleeps in the chair at the hospital. Hermione finds him the first morning and apparates him to her house. He is met with a half-dressed Draco Malfoy at the kitchen table.

'Draco – not now, this is my house,' She shoves him up the stairs and into Scorpius' room. 'Have a shower, clean yourself up, put something else on, get it together.'

She runs downstairs.

Albus feels dirty in Scorpius' room which smells so much like him. He quickly gets a shower.

* * *

**_(12_****_th_****_ April) _**

Scorpius regains consciousness.

* * *

**_(15_****_th_****_ April) _**

He manages to breath on his own.

Albus sits by his side with charcoal and paper and draws.

He shows them to him, Scorpius grins and breathlessly whispers, 'Thank you, so nice.' Then he stretches out his hand once again, his small cold hand and Albus takes it in his charcoal black one, and squeezes. 'Thank you.' Scorpius says.

Albus sticks the snakes behind him, by the end of the week there are six, all atop each other, pictures everywhere covering white wall.

* * *

**_(20_****_th_****_ April) _**

Scorpius manages to sit up and have a little food. Albus gives him soup and brings him milkshakes. 'I won't be able to drink them all, you mad?'

'One's for me.' He replies, taking the banana.

'Of, course.'

As if he were a muggle he stands in a deserted smoking shelter outside of the building which holds St Mungo's. The bruises on his knuckles are only growing and darkening and people stare at him as they walk past him smoking his whole pack of cigarettes.

* * *

**_(22_****_nd_****_ April) _**

'This is not permanent.' She hands him a pillow. 'I can only offer the floor if you won't take the bed.'

He shakes his head, no. 'No, I can't, thank you for this.'

'Are you telling your parents Albus? I ensure you that my children won't remain quiet about the situation.'

'I will owl them soon.'

'Okay. I trust you.'

* * *

**_(24_****_th_****_ April) _**

It's late. He's leaving when Hermione's shift ends at 5am. Scorpius is somehow awake and is sipping his milkshake. Albus is sketching.

'Can I ask you, Al?' He asks slowly, 'do I have the right to that?'

He doesn't know what he means, he has the right to everything. But, of course the hesitation is there, because of him, because he's made it that way. 'Go on.' He puts his pencil down and watches him watch him. Grey eyes which have seen and gone through so much watching him curiously.

Scorpius bites the straw, 'Where did you go?'

Albus fights himself not to look away. He blinks instead. 'I – I – '

'I've never seen you stutter before, shit.' He smirks around his straw.

Albus pulls air into his nose, exhales through his mouth, 'I don't know what to say.' He replies, shaking his head, being ridiculous, because he shouldn't be worried, but more so, he shouldn't have gone.

Scorpius' tongue pokes out and swirls around the straw, 'Whatever you feel like, whatever you want.'

Albus blinks. Once, twice. Rests his head against the back of the chair.

'It's okay Al.'

He shakes his head. 'Don't say that to me. Please.'

Scorpius nods. 'I missed you.'

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes, 'I went to London.'

'Muggle London?' Says Scorpius.

'Muggle London.'

Scorpius sits up, 'What did you go there for? Did you buy some more muggle paraphernalia? Honestly, you're worse than me!'

'No, sorry, my visit encompassed more of the – night life.' He says it slowly, methodically, testing each word before he says it. Albus captures the moment he gets it, he _gets it. _And his friends skin looks grey, he lays back with into his pillows, shrinking against them, looking so much younger than he is, like a scared little child. But when he speaks his voice is nothing but strong,

'Oh, _oh. _You frequented the copious amounts of night clubs and bars available to a man of your age. I see. How very nice for you.' Albus can't tell whether he's joking, he leans forward on the bed, resting his elbows near Scorpius' arm.

Despite his friend's face, Albus carries on, he tells the truth, 'I don't remember most of it.'

'Oh.' More like _oooooh… _

Albus clutches the bed sheet with his hand and looks up at Scorpius and he can see, he can tell what he's said has hurt him, like he knew it would, but he can't take the words back, can't take what he did back, he can only make up for the hours they lost. 'I'm sorry.' He says earnestly.

'I know you are. You wouldn't have come back, you wouldn't still be here if you weren't. My father, nor Hermione would let you.' He breathes out a laugh. 'You'd be dead by now if you weren't sorry.'

Albus can only nod.

Then Scorpius says what he isn't expecting, 'I shouldn't have told you go.'

'To go?' He leans closer, 'When did you – '

'You know what I mean, don't make me spell it out, fuck sake. All those times I told them not to let you in, I don't really know why, not really,' he shrugs, 'I was embarrassed I think, that you kept seeing me being all fucking disgusting.' His cheeks flush and he looks away but Albus almost takes his chin to pull him back because his face has never looked so open and he's relishing it, despite the fact he is not relishing what it is he is saying. 'No one should ever have to see that Al, it isn't nice, it's really fucking awful, and you just kept on seeing it, all of it, you wouldn't even look away from me and I think I just got self-conscious.' Albus wants to stop him, his eyes are widening with each word, but he doesn't, he wants to listen, understand, then argue. 'I understand or understood or what-the-fuck-ever, that you wanted to help, that you were my friend, helping me, I understand if it all got too much for you, it is so much for everyone, I get it.'

He presses his damp hands into the sheets. Albus breathes in huffs through his nostrils before he answers, if he speaks now he'll say something he'll probably regret later, so he takes his time, counts the minutes passing before he is calm.

'Scorp, no.' His fist uncurls and he reaches over tentatively, running a finger over the smooth skin of his upturned arm. Scorpius doesn't look at him, but the skin he traces gets hot. 'Scorp, no.' He says in a whisper.

'I missed you. Even when I told you to go, all those times, I still missed you.' His voice trembles at the end, and it makes him groan, as if he was trying his best not to let that happen, but it did and Albus hears it. His finger stops moving and he curls it around his arm instead.

'Al, I'm sorr – '

'You stop!' He pulls him forward, wrapping his other hand behind his neck, Albus stands up and over him, but then he's too tall so he crouches so they are at eye level, and again he says, 'Stop, now!' Letting go of his arm, he palms his neck, running his thumb over the bone of his cheek. A sound escapes, from him? From Scorpius? He doesn't know, or care. But he sees his friend's eyes glisten so he stands up, before he does anything more, anything too drastic, and wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him to his chest. Scorpius trembles, his own tiny arms wrapping around his back. Albus bends down, and before he can realise, his lips press to his head.

* * *

**_(26_****_th_****_ April) _**

Neither of them say anything, but they don't need too, the air around them speaks well enough. It changes. He becomes more aware of the air separating them, as if he could see it and grasp it and push it away.

Even though he notices before, it's so much more fine-tuned now, like he's seeing everything in technicolour. He takes note of every detail of him, to his big strong hands, to the eyelashes surrounding those too green eyes. Even behind the fog of illness and potions he notices what he wears, how it clings to him in all those glorious ways. How he smells, how he moves.

Sometimes he just watches without caring who sees because looking at him is too good to miss. At his unmoving lips, so red and bold and stunning. It is fascinating, wonderful, but the greatest is when he looks away for those short times and sees Albus look his way too. Everything between them remains the same, just heightened, just _charged. _

'We're behind boy'o, you just had to go and get pneumonia. Rubbish little thing that is.'

Albus scoops jelly into his open mouth. Scorpius doesn't bother telling him he's probably capable of doing it himself. Simm's stands at the end of the bed demanding attention that he needs which Scorpius isn't giving him. The Healer clears his throat, so Scorpius looks away from the hand holding the spoon near his mouth.

'Why did they fight a war over blood Simon, when it is essentially all the damn same and makes me like food again!' He grins.

Simms laughs. 'Oh Scorpio, who knows? You're doing so well. I tell you, only six more weeks now. Only six, with pneumonia pushing us back two. But unfortunately, we're moving you to an isolation room. No more wards boy'o. And please, no going outside when at home, I know it's difficult but please stay at home or I'll have to keep you here.'

'I can do that Simon.' His eyes on the jelly-holder once again. 'I can do that.'

* * *

Draco stands against the fireplace, hand holding a Firewhiskey and water, the fire is on, glowing, heating his face. He stares into the flames. He resists the urge to lean against it, but if he does, he's so drunk he knows he might fall. So, he braces his arms atop the mantel piece and stares glares frowns into the flames.

Of course, that's where she finds him, because she always has a knack for seeing him at his worst. She is silent, as is he. But her arms come around and pull his to her chest. Her chin comes to his shoulder, so both of their faces are heated by the fire. He takes a sip of his drink. She says,

'I know you don't like it, but he's family.'

Once desirable, her sweet breath on his ear infuriates him and he shrugs from her hold. Turning away, glass in his hand he walks across the room before turning back to her. 'He left, after everything, after getting so close, he left.' Draco bites out each word, 'He doesn't need nor deserve your help, he got himself in this situation, through sheer fucking idiocy! He shouldn't be here, nowhere near him!'

'Draco – ' she steps closer, but he steps back, and again, before she stops, hands drop in defeat, 'Draco, he was scared – '

'Scared!' He exclaims, 'What the fuck has the kid to be scared of, Hermione!' He fists his drink, glaring at her, 'I thought the son-of-a-bitch was just curious at first, you know, like some freaky kids are, they love seeing sick people.' Hermione shakes her head but he stops her, cold eyes narrowing, 'But no, it seems he wanted to just give my son all he wanted before fucking off into the night, like he meant, means, nothing! He got sick, Hermione! He got sick because that bastard left!'

She reaches for him again, arms up, searching, but he backs off, downing his drink and throwing the glass to the wall. It smashes, Hermione bites back a scream. 'Draco! Stop!'

He retreats further away. His knee's hit the settee and Draco slumps down. 'How could he just have given up so easily?' Shaking hands hold his head, 'My son, how could he have just _given up _like that? He's so strong, he's – 'but he doesn't finish because she's there. Straddling his lap, arms around him and he takes it, because he needs it.

'It's difficult. For everyone. I don't know what happened, or why. And I'm sorry you don't like him here, but he's back now, Albus and Scorpius are back now. Which can only mean good. All will be well, please, hush now, come here, come here, he'll be okay you'll see.'

* * *

**_(28_****_th_****_ April) _**

There are quilts and pillows on the floor near his bed in the attic of Hermione's country cottage. He looks at their neat arrangement, puzzled. He's been asleep since he came back from the hospital the night before and doesn't remember anyone coming over. He's still trying to decipher the answers when Albus walks in. Albus! At eight in the morning on a Thursday! His dark curls brush the low ceiling, and his shoulders are slightly slumped because he's too big to fit easily into the small room.

'I hope you don't mind.' He says, dropping something onto the table beside his bed. Scorpius looks up at him from his pillow, he cranes his neck to see his face.

'What do you mean?' His voice is all sorts of croaky.

He points to the sheets on the floor, 'I've been staying here. I hope you don't mind.'

Scorpius looks back to the floor, just so Albus won't see his reaction really, and he speaks to the pillows there, 'Don't mind at all.'

* * *

**_ (5_****_th_****_ May) _**

Scorpius is moved to a big room across from the ward. He changes the colour of his name above his head to purple. Two pink chairs are beside his bed now. Hermione wheels the television in front of him. Two more bags a day. Two hours each. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Home, heaven, respite, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Food turns sour, he throws it all up. His nose bleeds for an hour one afternoon between sickness, and he hangs his head down the toilet and cries,

'I can't do this, I'm sorry, I really can't do this.'

Hermione stands over him, hands on her hips, 'You're doing great, you're almost there.'

He shakes his head, 'I can't do it.'

'Scorpius Malfoy, you can lick this, this is nothing, you're stronger than some old cancer.'

She begrudgingly levitates him back to bed where he stares at his name above him. He lays there and thinks what death would feel like and he finds that he isn't scared, not really. He'll see his mum hopefully wherever he'll go after, where ever he might end up. He imagines darkness, and the light everyone speaks of. It blinds him through the crushing darkness, blowing his senses, and it's beautiful because there will be no pain in death, there will only be –

'Have you heard of Peter Pan?'

Albus makes him open his eyes.

And then he promises himself to never contemplate death again.

'It's been abused.' He motions his wand in a figure of eight, skin above his eyes coming together, 'Damn, shit, I almost forgot I was a wizard.' His father makes a sound, but Scorpius doesn't look his way, too focused on his ministrations of his wand. 'Just a small spell,' he screws up his eyes in focus. Pointing the wand at a picture on wall behind them.

'Wingardium Leviosa.' he says.

He swishes, he flicks, but the paper does not move. He swears. He tries again, the paper, a snowflake from Christmas one of his own because Albus' are too lovely to move, doesn't even flicker. Scorpius groans and turns to Albus, 'Fuck sake man! The fuck's wrong with me?' He rolls his eyes, 'don't answer that.'

'I wasn't going too.'

'Course you weren't.' He tries again and fails. His wand is all the same, all unicorn hair, oak wonderful seven inches of it. He sighs, putting more strength behind the small spell. Tunnel vision, he tries to focus focus focus on the small insignificant piece of paper, swiiiiish and flick.

And nothing.

'Ahhh! What. The. Fuck.'

'Maybe you're tired.'

He looks at him incredulously, before throwing his wand for him to catch. 'Probably that shitty wand, I haven't used it in months, so that's the thing that's probably tired, you try.'

Albus looks at the wand, then him. 'I – what?'

Scorpius understands his pause, his wonder, because people just don't do that. They don't offer someone else to use their wand willingly. Someone else only uses your wand if they take it usually by force through battle or fight. It is rare to give someone your wand to use without reason, it is done, but rare.

Scorpius tells him to use it, to try and do the spell that he can't seem to do. He wants to see whether it's the wand that's useless or him. But he also wants to see Albus use it. Something that's his, in those big brown hands, even if it's a bit sad, that disconnected part of himself, that wand, he wants Albus to have and to hold.

'Use it, go on.' _Please, _he thinks but does not say. Though he can't hide it from his face, and really, he doesn't want too.

So Albus does, those green eyes of his must see the need in his own and he swishes and he flicks and the paper rises into the thick hospital air. Scorpius doesn't say anything as he watches it. It rises and rises before falling onto his pillow slowly.

Albus doesn't say anything either, he doesn't even give him back his wand. Scorpius doesn't know what he does with it at the same time he couldn't care less. Burn it for all he cares in that moment.


	15. Chapter 15

**_(12_****_th_****_ May) _**

'Sit on the bed with me.'

'I can't.'

'Shut up, of course you can.'

He does. And Scorpius, tired and numb, slumps his bony body into his hard one, rests his head on his shoulder and sighs.

They watch Ghost. And Scorpius doesn't even cry.

But Bridge to Terabithia comes on and he weeps until Hermione turns it off.

Then they watch Law Abiding Citizen and when Albus turns his head at the worst scene, Scorpius takes his hand and grins into his fist when he feels a squeeze.

* * *

'There are red bits on my skin, like patches, like I've been burnt.'

'I don't see anything.'

Scorpius is shifting into unconsciousness, he can't keep food down, himself up, his eyes open, after the poison, he leaves his body.

'Yes – you do Dad.'

Draco pats his leg, and goes to find the Healer.

* * *

**_ (19_****_th_****_ May) _**

_Albus, _

_You're current suspension from Hogwarts weighs heavily upon us. We have owled the school and demanded the decision be overturned. However, we have previously spoken to McGonagall and she seems unsympathetic to your situation, and thus the odds are not in your favour. You have missed vital exams already. She suggests you entirely re-take your final year. Albus, can you understand how embarrassing this is! _

_What makes this situation worse is that you decided not to inform us of this until weeks after it's occurrence! And where, pray tell, Albus did you go during your unauthorised absence? These are dangerous times we live in! I am sure you have heard of the occurrence of murders in the south of England recently. Three more deaths in the past months, not to mention the debacle in diagon alley. So many innocent lives, and you disappear. How selfish of you, no? _

_We will inform you of McGonagall's decision, but your academic future will improve greatly if you take her advice and re-take the year. We don't know what's happened to you this year. We are emphatically disappointed in you. _

_Our regards to Hermione, _

_Ginny Potter _

'My parents send their regards.'

'Oh, very nice.' Hermione replies.

He tears it up and throws the pieces away.

* * *

**_(27_****_th_****_ May) _**

Vomit comes and he can only turn his head over the side of his bed. Over Albus – who sits up, shocked, then looks at him and walks to the bathroom. He returns and Scorpius won't look at him.

'Are you laughing?' Albus says. He cleans the rest with his wand.

'Why would I laugh?' He sniffs, wipes his mouth. Albus sits on the bed.

'Open your mouth.' Scorpius blushes, but does, and Albus spells it, cleans it.

'I'm so sorry.' He turns away.

'Never be sorry.'

'I just – '

'It was funny.'

'What?' He turns over. Albus is lead back down on his quilt on the floor. A smile in his eyes. 'Are you – you never smile.'

'I'm not smiling.'

Scorpius sighs, 'You so are, your _eyes _are.'

'They are?'

He can't look away, 'yeah.'

'Don't bite your lip.'

'Why not?'

His hand reaches up, as if to touch it, and Scorpius closes his eyes but feels nothing, Albus has pulled his fingers away, and all he says is, 'Because it's bleeding.'

* * *

**_(1_****_st_****_ June) _**

The moon is casting silver shards of light through the small window at the top of the cottage. It pools over his quilts on the floor and he isn't there.

Scorpius (1.15am): Where are you?

Albus (2.31am): Go to slep

Scorpius (2.33am): What? Where are you? Are you okay?

Albus (2.37am): Yes, I'm okay.

Scorpius (2.40am): It's the middle of the night. Where are you?

Albus (2.50am): London

His phone hits the wall with tremendous force, despite his feeble limbs. He wants to pick it back up and throw it again, and again, and again, and again but he can't summon the energy to move. So, he casts a mufalato and lets his raw mouth scream.

That morning he is sitting at the wooden kitchen table watching the rain out the window. There is a pile of books in front of him, all of which he has read before. They are his favourites, some poetry, some novels, some fictional and some not.

Even with Hogwarts: A History in front of him, the most recent version which he still hasn't read in full, even then, he can't help but look up when Albus walks in. He tries to hide it, but his eyes follow him around the kitchen. He gets a glass of water and leans against the kitchen work top. Giving Scorpius his big broad back.

When he lowers the book, he tries not to make a sound. But, because he's so fucking lucky, it does, it's thick hardback bangs against the wood and even though Albus' back tenses, he remains where he is.

Sometimes the absence of something holds more than anything said. Scorpius hates silences, felt that in most situations there was always something someone could say. But he'd never been in a situation like this before. It made him want to dwell in the awkwardness that they'd never shared. So, he sets the book down with a louder bang, defiantly, despite the rapidity of his heart, he makes his eyes cold and glares at that big broad back.

Perhaps he had misunderstood where they stood together. Maybe he was alone with how he felt and what he thought. That was entirely possible. But that small realisation squeezed his heart, his gut, all fermented into that lead again. It stayed there, boiling within him, poisoning all he had wondered and hoped for through the illness he had almost beat. It took over it, because Albus had always taken over everything hadn't he?

The man still didn't turn around, but he's so tense Scorpius can make out the muscles under his blue t-shirt. Blue. He always wore black around him. Perhaps he was already getting ready for his fucking funeral. With that thought, his book sparks, cracks, before flying forward and smacking Albus right between his shoulder blades. It makes him turn around.

But before he can see his face – that face - Scorpius turns and walks away. He spends the remainder of the day in bed, turning to cancer to turn away from Albus.

* * *

**_(3_****_rd_****_ June)_**

He's caught fire. Every organ within him singes and burns. Inside of him it bubbles bubbles and bursts and seeps. Everything twists and he tries not to, but the pain pushes it out of him – he screams.

His body, taken over, convulses violently just trying to steer away from the burn. He pushes himself around, and before he knows it he's at the end of his high hospital bed, gripping the sides. Trembling, he's over the edge and in the darkness, he feels himself fall –

The impact never comes. Instead he lands steadily into a haze of tobacco smoke. Through his screams there are whispers, tentative touches down his back. His screams lighten to groans – and he is able to open his eyes to the darkness.

Albus! – Albus is cast in shadow, he's looking down at him with those eyes, sunken with despair. Scorpius wants to look away, but instead he reaches up and smooths his fingers over his eyelids. Albus trembles underneath his hand. He wipes away his ridiculous tears and shakes his head up at him. Why are you here? He doesn't say. What are you doing? What are _we _doing?

Albus positions him so Scorpius is sat sideways on his lap, his head on his shoulder. The hand on his back shakes and squeezes him softly. The pain had subsided but it comes back, even like that, with him, cancer rears its pungent head and his organs begin to simmer again – slowly, slowly, boiling on a stove – he grits his teeth, his head falls into the soft dip of Albus' neck.

He rocks him into submission. He's just breathing heavily through the pain. Scorpius doesn't cry again, though he wants too – his body relaxes into those strong arms forgetting for those moments what he's ignoring and what it means.

* * *

**_(5_****_th_****_ June) _**

Hermione wheels him into the living room.

'Told you he was up Draco!'

His father smiles at him, he hands him the gift.

'Thankyou Scorpius, thank you.'

He nods. But doesn't smile, his gums are bleeding too bad. 'Happy Birthday Daddy'o.'

Draco cringes, 'Oh, no, don't call me that.'

Hermione cackles. 'Scorpius, brilliant, brilliant, open it, Daddy'o.'

Now Scorpius cringes, 'No, jeez, please no.'

They all laugh.

* * *

They have the house to themselves. His father and Hermione are out working and Scorpius is having a good day. He sits on his bed surrounded by nail polish and eye shadow. He keeps sneaking glances at the door. Before painting his nails in all the colours, he has, or at-least that Hermione has. He does a shitty job because he's shaking but it brightens up his pale skin anyway.

There's no mirror for reference so he tries blindly to apply the eyeshadow to his eyelids – he's using gold when the door opens.

'Scorp?' He just comes in, like there's nothing off or different. Like his friend isn't surrounded by makeup, 'Scorp?'

Scorpius doesn't turn around so Albus walks in front of him. He looks up. All made up and colourful. 'Yeah – Al?'

'I found some more, if you're interested?' He hands him some bags.

Inside of them are more nail-polishes, silvers, greens, blues, everything. And Scorpius loses his voice. Eventually he says, 'These for my Dad?'

'No,' Albus sits beside him and takes out a green polish, 'why?'

Scorpius takes it from him, spreads out his long fingers, puts his hand on his knee, he looks up, 'It's his birthday today – I got him a book, or at least I got Hermione to get a book for him for me,' he rolls his eyes. Then starts painting Albus' nails in sparkling emerald green, his hands shaking. 'It's a muggle book actually, you'd have read it, Wuthering Heights.'

'I have read it.' He says.

'Me too,' he blows on Albus' nails, 'when I was a kid. I was too young to read it. It gave me nightmares for months. I used to see Cathy at my window, and dream that she was coming through.'

'Do you have them now?' He admires his nails, 'The nightmares?'

Scorpius laughs, taking Albus' green fingers in his colourful ones. He expects his friend to pull away but he doesn't. He pulls them down into the space between them instead. 'Nope, nothing now – I got over it I guess. But I remember Dad used to have to check my entire room before I went back to sleep because I always thought she was there.' He laughs, 'I was a fucking weird kid, he did a lot for me, come to think of it, so I thought it'd be a good present. A reminder of what was, what isn't anymore and what will be.'

'What will be.' Albus says, looking at him, 'It's a good present, I never realised it was his birthday I haven't – '

'Man, doesn't matter, I signed it from the both of us.'

* * *

**_ (12_****_th_****_ June) _**

Hermione stands beside Simms at the end of Scorpius' bed. Not that the kid is in his bed, he's insisted he be standing up when given the information. The good Healer beside her hasn't spoken yet. But he's told her and Draco earlier in the family room. Scorpius' face is drawn and pale. Short sprouts of white hair adorn his otherwise bald head. He weighs almost less than a thirteen-year old. But still he stands, features defiant. In the face of all this uncertainty, still, the boy shines.

'Scorpio!' Says Simon. 'Did I ever tell you, that was my star sign?'

He rolls his eyes, a feature of his she has come to know very well, 'Like I haven't heard that shit before. It's Albus' too, but I don't think he realised.'

'I didn't.' Albus says thoughtfully.

Scorpius doesn't look his way, he just shrugs, 'Doubt we came here for the astrology bullshit guys. Give it to me straight Simon, how's it's looking?'

The Healer breaks out into a smile, 'We're done, boy'o!' he says, 'The chemotherapy has got rid of your blast cells, your normal cells are increasing.'

There is a massive pause. Then, Draco goes over and hugs his son. Simon, Hermione, Albus, watch them and tears come to her eyes. When Draco comes back to her side, she squeezes his hand. Simon continues, 'You haven't seen the last of us yet, you'll be back every week for a year, then every month, then every 3 months, and so on – '

'- yeah, okay, yeah,' Scorpius interrupts him, shaking his head, 'but I'm good, all the bad shit's gone and we've done it, we've fucked it, I'm free to go?'

Hermione beams at him, 'You're free to go!' She goes over to him, that wonderful boy, he's even smaller than her, all bony and pale. But he beams with the news, like she knew he would or hoped. She hugs him, crushes him to her really, but he doesn't say anything. Just squeezes her back.

' – well until next week.' Simon says.

Hermione lets him go. 'Don't listen Scorp, that's all precautionary. And if there are any set-backs, don't worry, they're common – 'Draco squeezes her shoulders, shutting her up, 'but ignore that, ignore me. Get out of here!'

He laughs, 'Shit, okay, you don't need to tell me twice!' Going over to Simon slowly, they shake hands, before Scorpius tugs him forward and they hug.

He's shaking, from the news or for being so long on his feet. He tries to walk back to where he stood, but his foot slips in his socks. They all reach out on a breath, but Albus reaches him first. He's so tall, that Albus, he wraps himself entirely around Scorpius' back. So that he only leans back against him instead of falling. Albus steadies him, big hands on small shoulders.

Albus bends down to his ear, and Hermione feels herself looking away. Something about the two of them demands privacy. So, she looks towards the father who in turn looks back to her, and they give them their time.

'Where should we go?' Scorpius says openly. Draco looks to him first.

'Anywhere kiddo.' He says, his voice rough like she's never heard before. It squeezes her chest and she reaches for him. 'Wherever you want.'

They go to a bookstore. A muggle one. In the centre of Oxford, because Scorpius scoffs when Hermione mentions the one in the centre of London.


End file.
